New York Run

by David Robbins

  “They’re Warriors,” Plato said gravely. “No one compelled them to take their oath of allegiance, and they can resign whenever they want.” He twisted. “Do any of you want out?”

  “Not me, old-timer,” Hickok said. “I’ve always had a secret hankerin’ to see the Rotten Apple.”

  “That’s the Big Apple,” Geronimo corrected him. “And where they go, I go. Someone has to babysit Hickok.”

  “And what about you?” Plato asked Blade.

  There was only one possible answer. Blade knew it, although he balked at voicing the words. Plato had hit the nail on the head. No one had twisted his arm to become a Warrior. He’d chosen his profession because he firmly believed the Family’s safety and survival were of paramount importance. If the Technics were a threat to the Family, then, as Plato had said, the threat must be removed. “Alpha Triad is a team,” Blade said to Plato. “One for all, and all for one.”

  “Now where have we heard that before?” Geronimo inquired, grinning.

  “Then it’s settled,” Plato announced. “I will convene a special meeting of the Elders. If all goes as expected, you should be able to leave by this time tomorrow.”

  “I can hardly wait!” Hickok said enthusiastically.

  Blade balled his huge hands into massive fists. There was no escaping his destiny. As head Warrior, he had to go.

  “Let’s have a quick bowl of soup first,” Plato proposed.

  Hickok walked to the table and pulled out a chair. “Sounds good to me. I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse!”

  “You’re always hungry,” Geronimo commented.

  Nadine carefully placed the metal tray on the living room table. “Enjoy yourselves!” she advised them.

  Hickok studied Blade. “Don’t get uptight, pard,” he said. “This will be a piece of cake!”

  “You wish!” Geronimo rejoined. “We’ll be fortunate if we come back alive.”

  Hickok leaned toward Blade. “Maybe we should leave Geronimo here this time,” he suggested.

  “Why’s that?” Blade asked.

  The gunman frowned. “I don’t rightly know if I can take much more of his rosy disposition.”

  Chapter Six

  Lieutenant Alicia Farrow was impressed, and it took a lot to impress her.

  As a combat-tested veteran with seven years in the Technic Elite Service, the commando arm of the Technic Army, she’d seen countless soldiers over the years. She’d fought side by side with some of the toughest men and women around. So she wasn’t about to be awed by other professional fighters, not unless they were exceptional.

  The Warriors were exceptional.

  She’d observed their training sessions: their marksmanship practice on the firing range in the southeast corner of the Home, their martial-arts tutelage under the direction of a stately Elder, and their individualized workouts with their favorite weapons. Over the past three days, she’d developed an abiding respect for the Warriors. She found herself, despite her better judgment, admiring their inherent integrity and devotion to the Family.

  It was too bad they had to die.

  But the Minister had been most explicit. The Warriors, even the entire Family, must be eradicated. If the Technics were to assume their rightful place as world rulers, then every potential rival must be destroyed. The Freedom Federation was too large to be overcome in one fell swoop.

  Accordingly, the Minister had decided 10 selectively smash the separate Freedom Federation members beginning with the Family. His reasoning was logical and sound. Although the Family was the smallest contingent in the Freedom Federation numerically speaking, it exerted the controlling influence in the Federation’s periodic Councils. The Family was becoming a symbol, a beacon of hope in a land ravaged by nuclear and chemical devastation. Wargo had told Plato the truth. Stories were spreading about the Family and the Warriors, and not just in the Freedom Federation but in the Outlands beyond. In an age when written and electronic communications and records were virtually nonexistent, fireside tales were the order of the day. Families would gather about their hearths at night, singles would congregate at crude “watering holes” where rotgut beverages were served, and in towns and settlements throughout the land everyone would exchange the latest information, the newest gossip they might have heard from a passing traveler. Serving as both a means of public dissemination of knowledge and a popular socializing entertainment, the stories grew as they were conveyed from mouth to mouth, from one inhabited outpost to the next. To some, the Home was becoming a sort of modern Utopia, while several of the Warriors had acquired mythical proportions. Ages prior, a Greek named Homer had regaled his listeners by extolling the herculean exploits of Achilles, Odysseus, Telamonian Aias, Diomedes and company. Now the cycle was being repeated, and the Minister did not like it one bit.

  The Technics were determined to crush all potential opposition and assert their natural superiority. As long as the Family existed, the people had a source of inspiration and encouragement. If the Family fell, so would the hopes and aspirations of thousands, making the conquest of America easier. The Freedom Federation would become demoralized if the Family perished, and they might even disband without the Family’s unifying persuasiveness to guide them.

  As she stood near A Block, watching Rikki-Tikki-Tavi and Yama spar, Lieutenant Farrow reviewed the Minister’s plan and marveled at his brilliance. The Family could be wiped out with a small force, the Minister had stated, his black eyes blazing at her from his elevated dais in the Technic throne room. The first step would be to gain their trust. The second to lure several of the Warriors and the SEAL away from the Home.

  And the final step would take place when the signal was given for the demolition team to level the Home, a demolition team of four commandos waiting in the forest outside the walls.

  A signal Lieutenant Farrow had to give.

  Farrow observed the flowing swirl of motion as Rikki and Yama engaged again, their arms and legs whirling, their martial-arts techniques honed to perfection.

  Despite his diminutive stature, Rikki was more than holding his own.

  His black form pranced around the big man in blue, flicking hand and foot blows with precise control. For his part, Yama was hard-pressed to prevent any of Rikki’s bone-shattering strikes from connecting. After several minutes of sustained mock combat, Rikki abruptly stepped back and bowed to his opponent, a grin creasing his face.

  “You are improving,” Rikki said.

  Yama bowed and smiled. “Coming from you, that’s a real compliment.”

  “Same time tomorrow?” Rikki asked, wiping his right palm across his perspiring brow.

  “Fine by me,” Yama replied.

  Kikki glanced toward the Technic officer, ten yards away, his brown eyes narrowing. “She follows you everywhere, doesn’t she?”

  Yama nodded. “I’ve been appointed as her official Family liaison.”

  “I’m sure that’s the reason she sticks by your side,” Rikki remarked, his white teeth flashing.

  “Are you trying to imply something?” Yama inquired. He ran his left hand through his fine, silver hair and stroked his drooping silver mustache.

  “Not me,” Rikki responded innocently. “But you should thank the Spirit Hickok isn’t here.”

  “Why?”

  “You know Hickok,” Rikki said, still grinning. “He likes to tease everyone.”

  “But you don’t?” Yama asked.

  Rikki chuckled. “Of course not. A disciplined martial artist does not demean himself by exhibiting crude humor.”

  Yama laughed. “If you ask me, you’ve been hanging around Geronimo too much.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re starting to sling as much bull as he does,” Yama said, and the two Warriors laughed together.

  Lieutenant Farrow moved toward them. “May I compliment both of you on your skill?”

  Rikki bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

  “Are all of the Warriors as profi
cient as you?” Farrow inquired.

  “All of the Warriors are skilled,” Rikki answered.

  “He’s too modest,” Yama interjected. “Rikki is the best martial artist in the Family.”

  “From what I saw,” Lieutenant Farrow said, “you’re as good as he is.”

  Rikki grinned at Yama. “I have duties to attend to. I’ll see you later.”

  His katana was leaning against a maple tree ten feet away to their right, next to Yama’s usual arsenal. He walked over and reclaimed his sword, slid it through his belt, and headed toward B Block.

  “Did I offend him?” Lieutenant Farrow asked, her brown eyes probing Yama’s blue.

  “No,” Yama told her. “He thought we might like to be alone.”

  “Why in the world would he think that?” Farrow demanded defensively.

  Yama shrugged and walked to the maple tree. He replaced the Browning Hi-Power 9-millimeter Automatic Pistol under his right arm, and slid the Smith and Wesson Model 586 Distinguished Combat Magnum into his left shoulder holster. The 15-inch survival knife was returned to its sheath on his right hip, and the gleaming scimitar took its customary position on his left hip. Finally, he picked the Wilkinson Carbine up from the green grass, wiped the barrel, and slung the gun over his left shoulder.

  “Do you always pack so much hardware?” Farrow asked.

  “Always,” Yama replied.

  “Why?” she wanted to know.

  “The more diverse my arms, the more effective I can be,” Yama explained.

  “I get the impression you’re very, very effective,” I arrow said.

  Yama was about to reply when a terrified scream rent the air.

  “What was that?” Farrow questioned him, looking around.

  Yama was already moving, heading in the direction of the drawbridge at a rapid clip.

  Lieutenant Farrow hurried after him. “What is it?” she cried.

  Yama didn’t bother to respond. He ran faster as a second scream wafted over the compound, coming from the west, from the field beyond the west wall. The drawbridge was down, and he knew several Family members were in the field, working at removing a cluster of weeds growing about 40 yards from the wall. Normally a tedious routine, the clearing detail could be fraught with danger because of the proximity to the forest. Once a week three Tillers went outside the walls to attend to the clearing, guarded by the Warriors on the ramparts. Seldom did the Tillers encounter trouble so close to the Home, and never had the Warriors failed to protect them.

  This day was different.

  As Yama reached the bridge over the moat he glanced up and spotted Ares on the rampart directly above. At six feet, three inches in height, lean and all muscle, Ares was a formidable Warrior, but he accented his fierceness by shaving the hair on both sides of his head and leaving a trimmed, red crest from his forehead to his spine. He wore dark brown leather breeches, a matching shirt, and sandals, and carried a short sword on his left hip. Yama saw Ares furiously tugging on the magazine in his automatic rifle.

  Ares saw Yama crossing the bridge. “The damn thing’s jammed!” he yelled in frustration. “Hurry!”

  Other Family members were hastening toward the bridge.

  Yama was the first across the drawbridge. He took in the tableau before him and darted toward the Tillers.

  They desperately needed help.

  Any help.

  One of the Tillers, an elderly man, was already down, his chest torn to bloody ribbons. Two other Tillers, a youth and an attractive blonde woman, both wearing green overalls, were eight feet off, both seemingly riveted in place, frozen by the sight of their attackers.

  Because there were two of them.

  Once they might have been called gray wolves. Now they were deformed mutations, their very genes corrupted and transformed by the poisons in the environment. Born disfigured, these two had survived their infancy and struck off together to rear more mutations like themselves.

  Accustomed as he was to the sight of mutations and the even worse mutates, Yama nevertheless repressed a shudder as he closed on the deviate duo.

  Both wolves were over five feet at the shoulder. Both were covered with a coat of gray fur. But after that, any resemblance to a real wolf was strictly coincidental. Each had six legs instead of four, and each leg was tipped with tapering talons instead of paws. By a curious genetic quirk, both creatures had two tails and, incredibly, two heads. The second head extended from the front of each mutant’s neck. It was somewhat smaller than the original head, but its mouth was equally filled with a glistening array of pointed teeth. Red, baleful eyes were fastened on the Tillers. Both were slavering and growling, standing side by side next to the dead man sprawled before them.

  Yama never hesitated.

  The wolves were 30 yards away when he unslung his Wilkinson and aimed into the air. The two Tillers still alive were between the wolves and him, and Yama didn’t want to risk accidentally winging one of them. He elevated the Wilkinson barrel and fired a short burst into the air.

  Neither wolf so much as flinched.

  The mutants shifted their attention to the approaching man in blue.

  Four heads raised skyward, and four husky throats bayed their defiant challenge. They bounded forward, separating, one to the right and the other to the left, temporarily forgetting the two Tillers as they concentrated on the human in blue.

  “Get down!” Yama shouted to the Tillers.

  They didn’t budge, gaping at their fallen companion.

  Yama angled to the left, wanting a clear line of fire. He dropped to his right knee, raised the Wilkinson, and fired.

  The mutant on the left was caught in mid-stride. It was knocked onto its side by the impact of the heavy slugs and lay still.

  Yama shifted to cover the other wolf.

  The first one sprang to its feet and resumed its charge.

  Yama waited for the second wolf to get closer, his finger on the trigger of the Wilkinson. Focused on the second wolf, he mistakenly neglected to verify the first was dead.

  The oversight cost him.

  Yama was squeezing the trigger to fire at the second mutant, when someone behind him shrieked a warning.

  “Yama! Look out!”

  Yama swiveled, too late. He glimpsed a heavy body and a lot of fur, and then something slammed into his chest, sending the Wilkinson flying, and he landed on his broad back with the first wolf straddling his legs and snarling.

  The second wolf was 15 yards distant and bounding toward its mate.

  Yama tensed, his hands at his sides, waiting for the mutant to make a move. He knew if he so much as twitched, the wolf would be on him ripping and tearing with its strong teeth and talons. He didn’t want to do anything to provoke it. He was tempted to grab his survival knife, but realized the consequences.

  The mutant inched toward its prey’s neck, puzzled by the human’s inexplicable immobility.

  A pistol cracked, four times in swift succession.

  Yama saw the bullets hit the wolf straddling him. He could see the thing jerk as the shots hit home.

  Who was doing the shooting? Ares?

  The wolf growled and leaped to the attack, vaulting over the prone Warrior after this new assailant.

  Yama rolled to his feet, drawing his scimitar. His blue eyes widened when he found his benefactor. It wasn’t Ares or one of the other Warriors.

  It was Lieutenant Farrow.

  The Technic officer was holding her automatic pistol in her right hand and using her left hand to brace her right wrist. Her legs spread wide, her left eye closed, she aimed and fired again.

  The nearest mutant twisted, blood spurting from its ruptured throat, but it kept coming, saliva dripping from its lower jaws.

  Lieutenant Farrow blasted the wolf two more times.

  Yama raced after the mutants. They were almost upon Farrow, and her shots weren’t having any apparent affect.

  Farrow fired twice more, then her pistol clicked on empty.

&nb
sp; Yama was too far away to lend her assistance.

  The first mutant leaped for Farrow’s jugular.

  The Technic dodged to the right, narrowly evading the slashing talons of the genetic deviate. She turned, keeping her eyes on the first wolf, inadvertently exposing her back to the second.

  Yama was ten feet off, still too far away to be of any use. Unless he could distract the mutants. “Try me!” he shouted savagely. “Me!”

  The second wolf, bounding between Yama and the Technic, abruptly spun at the sound of the harsh voice to its rear. Its fiery eyes alighted on the Warrior in blue, and it charged.

  Yama stopped, holding his scimitar at chest height, waiting, gathering his strength. If he missed, the mutant wouldn’t give him a second chance.

  The wolf was on him in a gray streak, its jaws snapping at his waist and legs, snarling ferociously.

  Yama’s bulging muscles powered the scimitar in a vicious arc, the curved sword gleaming in the bright sunlight as it whisked through the air and into the springing mutant, connecting, slicing into the creature’s top head, into its forehead, neatly severing a section of the wolfs scalp in a spray of crimson, hair, and flesh.

  The wolf went down in a disjointed heap.

  Yama knew the thing was still alive, but he couldn’t waste a precious second.

  The first mutant had Farrow on the ground, its lower jaw locked on her left forearm, and was brutally wrenching her from side to side while its top head attempted to bite her neck.

  Yama reached them in four strides. The scimitar drove up and down in a shining glitter of light, the razor edge entering the wolf behind its upper ears and penetrating six inches into its skull.

  The mutant stiffened, released Farrow, and spasmodically tore to the right, away from the man in blue. The force of its momentum yanked the scimitar from Yama’s hands. It staggered from the wound, its upper eyes glazing over but its lower orbs alert and enraged.

  Yama reached down and hauled Farrow erect. Her left forearm was bleeding profusely, and her features were pale, although she tried to muster a reassuring grin.

  Yama reached for his Browning, but even as he did Farrow pointed over his right shoulder and started to scream a warning. He turned, the Browning coming clear of its holster.