Dakota Run

by David Robbins

  “What was that?” Blade inquired.

  “I recollect my grandpaw telling me that when he first got married,” Hickok reminisced with a twinkle in his blue eyes, “he loved my grandmother so much he could have eaten her alive.”

  Sherry and Jenny, all attention, waited for him to finish.

  And waited.

  “Yeah? So?” Sherry finally goaded him. “So in his later years,” Hickok said, completing the story, “he used to say he was sorry he didn’t!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  He struggled against the darkness, his own mind balking at the prospect of returning to full consciousness. His head had sustained two severe blows, and the pain was intense, his temples throbbing. He attempted to recall his final memory before he blacked out, but it was indistinct and shrouded in a haze. Slowly, laboriously, his remembrance returned. There was a jumbled picture of a large hole in the ground, of a crater of some sort, of his tomahawk clenched in his right hand, and of… of… what?

  Like a massive tidal wave pounding onto a beach, the final moments before he was rendered unconscious washed over his mind.

  Ants!

  The ants!

  Geronimo came instantly awake, sitting up, perspiration coating his body, his eyes widespread.

  The ants!

  Where were the ants?

  “He’s revived,” a man’s voice commented.

  “About damn time!” griped another.

  Geronimo gazed around him, still in a daze, uncertain of the reality of what he was observing.

  Ten members of the Legion patrol were gathered nearby, their mounts within a hand’s reach for a quick getaway, should the need arise. Kilrane, Cynthia, and Hamlin were also there, Kilrane and Hamlin only feet away, watching him intently, and Cynthia by his side, her left hand on his shoulder.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked him.

  “Have you ever heard of deja vu?” Geronimo replied.

  “No,” Cynthia said, “can’t say as I have. What is it? Sounds like a fancy food.”

  “Are you up to traveling?” Kilrane interjected.

  “I think so,” Geronimo answered. “How long was I out?”

  “Hours,” Hamlin informed him. “It’s a little past noon.”

  Geronimo squinted up at the sun, confirming the hour.

  “We have a spare horse for you,” Kilrane mentioned. “We’ve got to get out of here, and fast. We must put as much distance between us and the Dead Zone as we can before nightfall.”

  “We’re still in the Dead Zone?” Geronimo queried, gingerly touching the side of his head with his right hand. There wasn’t any sign of blood. It only felt as if his head were split open.

  “About a mile from the tunnel we were in,” Kilrane elaborated. “Behind a small hill, out of sight of the ants. Very few have emerged from the pit in the past few hours. Apparently you were right about them. They don’t like the daylight all that much.”

  Geronimo spotted his tomahawk on the ground at his feet. He groped under his arm and found the Arminius in its shoulder holster.

  “You were still holding that tomahawk when we pulled you from the ant crater,” Kilrane remarked. “You wouldn’t let go of it for anything.”

  “How did I escape from that pit?” Geronimo questioned Kilrane.

  “We drug you out,” Kilrane explained. “I lassoed you from the rim and we all pitched in to pull you to the top. Surprisingly, the ants didn’t pursue us. They were occupied with the bodies of the ones you killed, and they left us alone long enough to hightail it out of there.”

  Geronimo, surveying his surroundings, saw the Palomino behind Kilrane. “Wait a minute! What’s going on?” He stared at the Legion captain. “I thought you said you fell into the pit, the same as we did. But your horse is still here.”

  “I never said that I fell,” Kilrane responded. “I saw Cynthia and you go over the edge, reined in, looked down, and saw that ant attacking you. I just had time to yell directions to Hamlin, and then I jumped in to lend you a hand.”

  “You jumped in? You deliberately leaped in after us?” Geronimo slowly stood, Cynthia rising with him, her concerned eyes never leaving his face.

  “I would have done the same for any of my men,” Kilrane stated nonchalantly, “or for someone I’d come to consider a friend.”

  Geronimo placed his right hand on Kilrane’s left shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you.”

  “Yeah,” Hamlin was saying, “he told us to wait as close as we could and watch for a signal. We were keeping binoculars trained on that big hole when Kilrane and the woman came out. Naturally, we rode down to help them, and you know the rest.”

  “Is this all that’s left of your patrol?” Geronimo queried, sweeping his left hand in a circle.

  Kilrane frowned and nodded. “Don’t know what happened to the rest. Maybe they became lost in the dust storm. Maybe the ants got them. No way of knowing. I do know I intend to save the rest of our mangy hides, so we’d better make tracks and vamoose.”

  The other riders took that as their cue and promptly mounted.

  Cynthia grabbed the reins of a brown stallion. “Here. We can use this one.”

  Kilrane swept up onto his Palomino. “We must be out of the Dead Zone by evening,” he emphasized. “Are you up to some hard riding?”

  “We’ll soon know,” Geronimo predicted as he climbed on the stallion.

  He extended his right arm and Cynthia nimbly deposited herself behind him.

  “Give a yell if you get dizzy,” Kilrane advised. He raised his right arm and motioned for the group to move out.

  The patrol rode up the hill and stopped.

  The immediate vicinity of the ant tunnel was devoid of life. For the moment, anyway.

  “Let’s ride!” Kilrane barked.

  They galloped down the hill and onto the plain beyond, bearing to the southwest, casting apprehensive glances over their shoulders, dreading the appearance of those stick-like appendages at the rim of the cavity.

  Cynthia placed her lips next to Geronimo’s right ear. “It’s the hottest part of the day, long about now. If those ants really don’t like sunlight or heat we shouldn’t see any of them.”

  “We hope,” Geronimo said. He found it difficult to concentrate properly, the motion of his steed causing extreme discomfort in his head.

  He gritted his teeth and bore the torture, knowing it was unlikely he would survive another night in the Dead Zone. With the descent of darkness, the insects would emerge in force and scour the countryside for food. He didn’t intend to become the entree at an ant picnic!

  The trip seemed interminable.

  The sun beat down mercilessly, draining Geronimo’s weary body of what little moisture it had retained. The bouncing of the brown stallion sparked periodic twinges in his head, stabbing, lancing aches and intermittent spasms. Geronimo wondered, again, if he were suffering from a concussion.

  The sun climbed higher in the sky.

  Geronimo became aware of Cynthia’s arms clasped around his waist, of her breath on the back of his neck. He recalled her fiery embrace the night before, and realized he wanted to spend more intimate interludes with her. But how? He contemplated the possibilities and narrowed them down to two. First, he could remain with her, join her on the family farm, or establish a farm or ranch of his own. The prospect was singularly unappealing. He knew working with the soil was exalted labor, but the lifestyle wasn’t for him for the same reason he’d declined becoming a Tiller at the Home; watching corn grow, in terms of sheer excitement, had to rate a minus twenty on a scale of one to ten. He wasn’t about to resign his status as a Warrior, at least not yet. That left the second scenario. He could take Cynthia with him to the Home. But how would she feel about the idea? Would she be willing to leave her family, give up the existence she knew for a total unknown? Abandon her loved ones for a man she’d only met recently?

  “What are you thinking about?” she said in his ear.

  “You,” he admitte
d.

  “What about me?”

  “You sure you want to hear it?”

  She laughed. “I don’t have anything else to do at the moment.”

  Geronimo took a deep breath, gathering his courage. “Okay. But you may not like what you’re going to hear.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Cynthia suggested.

  Here goes nothing! Geronimo mentally braced himself for rejection and detailed his proposal.

  Chapter Twenty

  Plato found Blade and Hickok lounging near the SEAL, sitting in the grass by the transport, relaxing.

  “Ahh! Here you are,” the Family Leader declared as he walked around the vehicle and saw them. “I’ve been seeking you.”

  Hickok looked up. “We’re trying to avoid our ladies for a spell,” he revealed. “They’re driving us nuts with the preparations for our double ceremony.”

  “I believe I saw them over by A Block,” Plato said. “They were looking for you both. Should I go inform them of your location?”

  “No!” Hickok almost yelled. “They haven’t left us alone since we agreed to tie the knot. Do this. Do that. Make sure this is done before the wedding. If I’d known what I was getting into before I asked her, I might never have asked her!”

  Plato smiled. “This is a revelation.”

  “What do you mean?” Hickok asked, perplexed.

  “Perhaps we should hold another Naming for you,” Plato suggested, “and change your name from Hickok to Henpecked.”

  Blade laughed. “Two points for Plato.”

  “Blade was just telling me about what Star may have found,” Hickok said, adroitly changing the subject. “Why were you looking for us?”

  “To show you this,” Plato replied, holding up a white sheet of paper.

  “What’s that?” Blade inquired.

  “Read it to Nathan,” Plato directed.

  Blade took the paper and read the first word. “Hello.” He stopped and glanced at his mentor. “You’ve deciphered the cryptic message Carpenter placed in the Operations Manual?”

  “Read on,” Plato recommended. “It’s self-explanatory.”

  “Hello,” Blade said, resuming his reading. “I must apologize for the devious method I’ve employed in passing on this information, but the security of my cherished Family is at stake. If someone with political aspirations, a power monger, were to learn of the existence of the SEAL, let alone of its sophisticated armaments, the temptation to exploit this knowledge for personal gain might be too great to resist.”

  “It’s a good thing Napoleon didn’t know the buggy is armed,” Hickok interrupted, referring to a recently deceased Warrior responsible for the only rebellion in the one-hundred-year history of the Family.

  Blade nodded and continued. “I have decided to convey the pertinent details concerning the SEAL by word of mouth, from one Leader to another, from myself to my handpicked successor, and so on down the line. Yes, I recognize the high risk involved, but a safety margin must be maintained.”

  “So somewhere along the line,” Hickok interrupted again, “one of the Leaders told his successor about the transport, but failed to pass on the information about the armanent instructions hidden in the Operations Manual.”

  “Evidently,” Plato agreed. “Will you permit him to finish?”

  “What’s stopping him?” Hickok countered.

  Blade smiled at Plato and went on. “The Operations Manual contains the essential details of the transport’s normal operating procedures, but I’ve purposely excluded the armaments from the Manual. Knowledge of the weaponry should be restricted to the Leader and a few trusted followers.”

  “This certainly corresponds with the first letter we found,” Plato innocently commented. “The one we discovered inside the vehicle after we uncovered the secret chamber.”

  “Shhhhh!” Hickok placed a finger over his lips. “Can’t you see the man is trying to read?”

  Blade hurried before Hickok and Plato started up again. “I elected to incorporate certain modifications into the transport, additions intended to preserve the occupants and enable them to defend themselves. There are four toggle switches on the dashboard. These control the armaments.

  My technicians assure me these weapons are effective, durable, and most importantly, they have a minimal malfunction ratio. The toggle switches are labeled according to their respective function. M. S. F. And an R. The M stands for Machine Guns. Two fifty-caliber machine guns are hidden in recessed compartments directly underneath each front headlight. If the M switch is flicked, these machine guns will be uncovered. A small metal plate will slide upward and the guns will automatically fire. The S stands for Surface-to-Air Missile. It’s amazing what you can obtain on the black market nowadays. A miniature missile is mounted in the roof above the driver’s seat. If the S toggle is activated, a panel in the roof moves aside and the missile is fired. These particular missiles are called Stingers. They are heat seeking and can down an aircraft at a range of ten miles.”

  “Incredible!” Hickok declared.

  “Sure is,” Blade agreed, and returned his attention to the paper. “The F is short for Flamethrower. This item is positioned at the front of the transport, hidden behind the front fender, in the exact center. If the switch is moved, a portion of the fender will lower and the nozzle of the flamethrower will extend six inches and engage. My experts inform me this is an Army Surplus model, with a range of twenty feet. They also say the SEAL should be immobile when the flamethrower is activated, or the risk of an explosion is dramatically increased.”

  “I’ll never sleep inside there again,” Hickok quipped.

  “The last toggle switch,” Blade was saying, “is marked with an R for Rocket Launcher. The rocket is secreted in the middle of the front grill and will instantly be launched if the toggle switch is thrown. Use extreme caution when near the dashboard; one mistake could have tragic consequences. Concerning ammunition for the machine guns, additional missiles, liquid for the flamethrower, and a considerable supply of rockets, you will find them hidden in the same chamber in which you found the SEAL. Examine the north wall. At the base of the wall, in the lower left corner, you will locate a camouflaged latch. Pull on this latch and the wall panel should slide to the right, revealing the Armament Room, as I refer to it. May the Spirit bless all your endeavors. I must hasten this Manual to the underground chamber and cover the chamber before any of my loved ones arrive at this survival site. All my love. Kurt Carpenter.”

  “This contraption is armed to the teeth,” Hickok noted. “Say, Plato, do you suppose we could use the flamethrower at the next Family barbecue? Roasting the deer would be a piece of cake!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “How much farther?” Cynthia asked him.

  Geronimo shrugged. “I don’t know, for sure, but it can’t be too much farther.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Geronimo lifted his left hand and pointed. “See that hawk up ahead?”

  Cynthia squinted. “That black speck is a hawk? You must have fantastic eyesight.”

  “It’s a hawk,” he assured her. “Searching for prey. I doubt any hawks would bother scouring the Dead Zone. We haven’t seen any sign of small game here. No, that hawk is probably circling over a field, looking for a rabbit or a field mouse. If I’m right, we should be out of the Dead Zone in a mile or less.”

  Three-quarters of a mile later the patrol was perched on the top of a rise.

  “I’ve never been so happy to see green grass in my life!” Hamlin said happily, accurately reflecting the collective sentiment.

  “We can’t stop yet,” Kilrane declared. “Those Cavalry boys might still be in the area.”

  “I doubt it,” Hamlin disagreed. “They must have figured the ants did their dirty work for them and went home.”

  “Let’s hope so,” was Kilrane’s reply.

  They rode down the rise and entered a narrow valley, a verdant patch nestled between t
wo sloping hills.

  “We need to find water for the horses,” Kilrane stated.

  Their small group covered half of the valley when Kilrane abruptly reined in the Palomino. The others immediately did likewise.

  “Why’d you do that?” Hamlin queried.

  “I heard something,” Kilrane responded, his head cocked to one side, listening.

  “Like what?” Hamlin wanted to know.

  “Like them,” Kilrane said, and pointed.

  “Son of a bitch!” one of the other riders snapped.

  Dozens and dozens of riders were forming on the rims of the two hills.

  Another line had formed directly in front of the Legion patrol, blocking their path. The only avenue still open was to their rear, back into the Dead Zone.

  “They have us boxed in!” one of the men cried.

  “How many are there?” Cynthia questioned, attempting to count the Cavalry riders.

  “I make eighty or ninety,” Kilrane answered.

  “What do we do?” Hamlin anxiously inquired. “Head back to the Dead Zone?”

  Kilrane shook his head. “No. That’s what they want us to do. We wouldn’t stand a chance of surviving another night in there.”

  “Then what do we do?” Hamlin nervously repeated.

  “We stay put,” Kilrane announced, his blue eyes blazing.

  “You’re crazy!” Hamlin exclaimed. “What chance do we have against that many men?”

  “Better odds than against the ants!” Kilrane rejoined.

  The Cavalry unit was closing in, the riders on the hills descending as the line in front of the Legion patrol advanced.

  “They’ll mow us down!” Hamlin wailed.

  Geronimo noticed Kilrane’s attention was arrested by someone in the skirmish line. The Legion captain was staring intently at the center of that line of horsemen.

  “Who do you see?” the Warrior asked.

  “I don’t believe it!” Kilrane replied. “We’re about to be honored with the royal presence.”