New York Run

by David Robbins

  The second wolf, the one with the missing scalp, was nearly on them, eight feet distant and sweeping forward.

  A small figure in black suddenly hurtled past Yama and Farrow, a katana gripped in both hands, darting toward the raging mutant. Without hesitating, without missing a beat, Rikki-Tikk-Tavi assumed the horse stance, squatted, and swung his katana with the blade close to the ground.

  Surprised by the appearance of another foe, dazed from the blow Yama had inflicted, the second wolf was unable to react in time. It felt a searing pain in all six legs as its lower limbs were hacked from its body. It instantly collapsed, its means of locomotion gone, and landed on its stomach. The mutant endeavored to flip onto its left side, to evade the human in black.

  It failed.

  Rikki reared over the second wolf, the katana held aloft, and slashed once, twice, three times, each stroke splitting the mutant’s body further, almost severing the twin heads from its bulky form.

  Yama, fascinated by Rikki’s skilled dispatching of the second wolf, suddenly remembered the first mutant and turned.

  The scimitar imbedded in its top head, the first wolf lurched at the man in blue and the injured woman.

  A lanky shape dressed in brown ran into view behind the first mutant, his red Mohawk, bobbing as he jogged nearer, his face a study in primal fury. “Get out of the way!” he bellowed.

  Yama looped his left arm around Farrow’s trim waist and leaped, drawing her with him, dropping to the ground and flattening, glancing over his right shoulder and seeing Rikki performing a similar maneuver.

  And then Ares was there. Perhaps it was his red hair, maybe his inherited temperament, but Ares was known as the most hotheaded Warrior. He had once escorted two Healers outside of the Home, protecting them while they searched for herbs. The Healers had stumbled across a large black bear, and the bear attacked. Ares came to their rescue. According to the Healers, the bear never stood a chance. Ares took it on with just his short sword and made mincemeat of the hapless predator. The Healers later stated Ares seemed to be enjoying himself as he fought. Too much. So whether justified or not, Ares was considered to be particularly bloodthirsty when his wrath was aroused.

  And at the moment he was incensed beyond endurance.

  Irritated by the jamming of his gun, inflamed by the death of the Tiller while under his guard, and racked by a tormenting sense of personal guilt, he had cleared his weapon and raced to aid Yama and Rikki. Now, his face contorted, his features livid, he raised his automatic rifle and fired at the first mutant, his slugs stitching across its heads and abdomen, and he fired as it stumbled and fell onto its knees, fired as it desperately tried to stand and lunge at him, and fired until both heads were a mass of shattered reddish pulp. Not content with the death of the first mutant, Ares advanced on the second. Although the wolf was limp, its eyes lifeless, its body flat on the ground, the Mohawk-topped Warrior slowly walked toward it, pumping round after round into the mutant, and only suspending his one-man barrage when the rifle lacked bullets to shoot.

  Ares stood next to the decimated mutant, sweat coating his hawkish face, and kicked it.

  “I think it’s dead,” Rikki remarked, standing.

  Yama stood, helping Farrow to rise.

  Ares gazed at the deceased Tiller. He turned to Rikki, his green eyes rimmed with moisture. “I killed him,” he said in a subdued tone.

  “You did not kill him,” Rikki said, disputing Ares. “I was inside B Block when this began and I didn’t hear the initial screams. One of the others told me about them, and I saw you working with your gun as I was running toward the drawbridge. Guns jam. It’s a fact of life.”

  “I killed him,” Ares asserted forlornly.

  Rikki walked over to Ares and placed his right hand on Ares’s left arm.

  “You did not kill him, my brother. Don’t blame yourself.”

  Ares stared at the Tiller again. “Dear Spirit!” he said.

  Other Warriors and Family members were emerging from the Home.

  “We can talk about this later,” Rikki offered.

  Ares looked down at Rikki. “I want a Review.”

  “You what?” Rikki responded in surprise.

  “I want an official Warrior Review Board to call a hearing and rule on my actions,” Ares stated.

  Rikki glanced at Yama, who frowned. “This isn’t necessary,” he told Ares.

  “It is for me,” Ares countered. “I demand a Review Board, and as a Warrior it’s my right to have one.”

  “But Blade is absent,” Rikki said. “He usually heads the Review Boards.”

  “Don’t stall,” Ares responded. “Blade doesn’t need to be here for a Review Board to be held. Besides, with Alpha Triad gone, you’re in charge of the Warriors. You can call a Review Board. All you have to do is pick two other Warriors to sit on it with you.”

  Rikki sighed. “This really isn’t necessary,” he reiterated.

  Ares gazed at the dead Tiller, his anguished eyes betraying his intense inner turmoil. He turned to Rikki. “Please, Rikki. For my own peace of mind.”

  Rikki was surprised by the distress Ares was suffering. Everyone had always considered Ares to be callous, to be impervious to any emotional affliction. They were certainly wrong. “I will call a Review Board for tomorrow,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Ares stated, relieved. “I am in your debt.”

  Bertha, Spartacus, Teucer, and a score of Family members reached the scene of the tragedy and clustered around, everyone asking questions at once.

  Yama took hold of Lieutenant Farrow’s right hand. “We must get you to the Healers.”

  Farrow reluctantly allowed herself to be led toward the drawbridge. She examined the ragged tear in her left forearm. “It’s no big deal,” she said.

  “Who are you kidding?” Yama retorted, weaving through the gathering crowd.

  “You might be needed here,” Farrow said.

  “Rikki will handle it,” Yama declared. He grinned at her. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid of seeing the Healers?”

  “I’m not too fond of having needles stuck into me,” Farrow acknowledged.

  “Our Healers don’t use needles,” Yama informed her.

  “What kind of medicine do they use?” Farrow asked.

  “Herbal remedies, primarily,” Yama answered. “They employ a varied assortment of natural medicines.”

  “And they don’t jab you with needles?” Farrow inquired.

  “No.”

  “Then how do you take your medicine?” she queried.

  “Orally,” Yama responded. “Usually their remedies are incorporated into a tea. Otherwise, they make Pills.”

  “And these remedies work?” Farrow asked.

  “Every time,” Yama said, “and without the adverse reactions people often suffered before the Big Blast to artificial chemicals and stimulants.”

  “Our scientists maintain herbal medicine is quackery,” Farrow commented without real conviction.

  “Let the Healers treat you,” Yama proposed, “then you be the judge.”

  They reached the drawbridge and started across. More Family members were hastening to the field. Sherry, Hickok’s wife, approached.

  “What happened?” Sherry asked as she came abreast of Yama.

  Yama nodded at Farrow’s left arm. “See Rikki. We must reach the infirmary.”

  “I understand,” Sherry said, and ran off.

  “Your Family is really tight-knit,” Farrow mentioned as they hastened in the direction of C Block.

  “We’re taught in childhood to love one another,” Yama told her.

  “Love? Isn’t that strange talk coming from a Warrior?”

  Yama shook his head. “Why should the quality of love be incompatible with being a Warrior?”

  “Because your whole purpose in life is to kill,” Farrow said. “You’re like me. A trained fighter. Killing is all we know.”

  Yama paused and looked into her eyes. “If all you know is
killing, I feel sorry for you.”

  “I don’t need your sympathy!” Farrow snapped, withdrawing her hand from his.

  Yama continued toward the infirmary.

  “How do you do it?” Farrow asked, staying on his heels.

  “Do what?”

  “Justifying killing, if you think so highly of love?” Farrow inquired.

  “All of the Warriors learn to love before they learn to kill,” Yama revealed. “Our early years with our parents and in the Family school are devoted to learning about love. What it is, how—”

  “What is love?” Farrow interrupted.

  “You don’t know?” Yama rejoined.

  “I’m serious. What is love? There are so many definitions,” Farrow observed.

  “We define love as doing good for others,” Yama disclosed. “It’s our golden rule. Do for others as you conceive your actions to be guided by the Spirit. Every child in the Family memorizes this teaching by the time they’re seven.”

  “But if you’re all taught so much about love,” Farrow said, “how is it the Warriors become so adept at killing?”

  “The Family exalts the ideal of spiritual love,” Yama stated, recalling his philosophy classes under Plato’s instruction. “Unfortunately, the rest of this crazy world doesn’t see it our way. If the Family is to survive in an insane world where violence is supreme and hatred is rampant, then some members must be willing to do whatever is necessary to preserve our Home and our ideals. The Warriors are skilled killers, true, but we only kill because we love our Family and want to safeguard them from the degenerates out there.” He waved toward the west wall.

  “You kill because you love,” Farrow said thoughtfully. “That’s a new one.” She clamped her right hand over the wound on her left arm to stem the flow of blood. The mutant had torn a six-inch gash in her forearm, and although she was still bleeding, the blood flowing down her arm and dripping from her elbow, there wasn’t as much as before.

  “We’re almost there,” Yama said, pointing at C Block.

  “There’s no hurry,” Farrow said. “It’s almost stopped bleeding.”

  “Tell me,” Yama stated. “Why do you kill?”

  Farrow was taken unawares by the question. “I never gave it much consideration,” she admitted. “I guess I kill because I’m a professional soldier. It’s what I’m trained to do.”

  “Do you like to kill?”

  “Not particularly,” she confessed. “It’s my job.”

  “Do you love the Technics?” Yama asked.

  “Love the Technics? You mean the way you do the Family?” Farrow laughed. “Not hardly! They’re all so damn selfish and self-centered! There’s not much to love!”

  They were nearly to the infirmary doorway. Yama stopped and stared at Farrow. “So you kill because it’s what they trained you to do, but you don’t really like killing and you don’t much like the Technics you kill for?”

  Farrow did a double take. “I never looked at it that way.”

  “What other way is there to look at it?” Yama retorted. “Frankly, I don’t see how you live with your soul.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at yourself. Take a good, hard look. You’re in a rut, stuck in a vocation you care little for, serving people you like even less. Where’s your sense of self-worth? Where’s your dignity as a cosmic daughter of our Maker?” He shook his head. “I don’t see how you do it.” He stepped to the doorway. “Come on.”

  “Yama…” Farrow said tentatively.

  He hesitated, standing in the doorway to the giant cement Block. “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For saving my life back there,” Farrow said.

  “You saved mine,” he reminded her.

  “And…” she began groping for the right words, “and for opening a window.”

  Now it was his turn to show bewilderment. “A window?”

  “Yeah. A window to the soul I never knew I had.” Farrow smiled, genuine affection lighting her dark eyes. “Thank you,” she reiterated softly, gently.

  Yama’s blue eyes touched hers. “Any time.”

  Chapter Seven

  “How much longer before we reach Chicago?” Blade demanded, concentrating on steering the SEAL around the multiple obstacles in the highway; there were ruts and cracks, potholes and mini-trenches, and even whole sections of former U.S. Highway 12 were buckled and impassable or missing, necessitating constant detours to avoid the problem spots.

  “We should reach the outskirts of Technic City soon,” Captain Wargo replied.

  The SEAL had been on the road for three days, three relatively uneventful days of traveling while the sun was up and pulling over to rest at night. They deliberately skirted the larger cities in their path, knowing from painful experience such urban centers were invariably dominated by violent street gangs or other hostile parties. The smaller towns and hamlets they encountered were usually devoid of life and in abject disrepair. Three towns did show signs of current habitation, but the occupants had obviously fled at the sight of the gargantuan green SEAL, its huge tires, tinted body, sophisticated solar panels, and militaristic contours all lending an ominous aspect to its appearance.

  Blade was behind the steering wheel. Across from him, on the other side of a console, Captain Wargo was seated in the other bucket seat.

  Hickok and Geronimo occupied a wide seat behind the bucket seats. The rear of the SEAL was devoted to storage space for their supplies.

  “Technic City?” Hickok spoke up. “I thought we’re headin’ for Chicago?”

  “Chicago was renamed long ago,” Captain Wargo said, “although some people still refer to it by that antiquated name.”

  “You didn’t tell us this earlier,” Blade observed.

  Wargo shrugged. “I didn’t think it was important.”

  Blade repressed a frown. The more he came to know Wargo, the less he trusted the Technic. There was a sly, devious quality about the officer. So far, despite tactful probing by the three Warriors, Captain Wargo had stuck to his original story; the Technics wanted the Family’s assistance in retrieving the Genesis Seeds. Blade didn’t believe him for a moment, and had given orders for one of the Warriors to always be inside the SEAL even when they were parked for the night or taking “a nature break.” If Wargo intended to steal the SEAL, Blade wanted to insure the Technic never got the chance. But during their three-day journey Wargo had behaved himself.

  Blade was beginning to wonder if he was wrong about the man.

  “Our Minister is looking forward to seeing you,” Captain Wargo commented.

  “Do tell,” Hickok quipped.

  “He will reward you richly for your services,” Wargo said.

  “We’ll be satisfied with our share of the Genesis Seeds,” Blade commented.

  “Of course,” Captain Wargo said, grinning.

  Blade wanted to punch the smug so-and-so right in the mouth.

  “Will we be staying in Chicago… Technic City… long?” Geronimo asked.

  “No,” Blade responded before Wargo could speak. “I want to reach New York City as quickly as possible.”

  “There’s no rush,” Captain Wargo said pleasantly.

  “There is for us,” Blade rejoined. “We want to get in, grab the Seeds, and get out. It’ll take us five days, maybe more, to reach New York. Another day to find the Seeds. Then five more days to Technic City and three more to the Home. All tolled, we’ll be gone from our Home about three weeks. I don’t like being away from the Home so long. The sooner we get back, the better.”

  “I can appreciate your feelings,” Captain Wargo said, “but some things can’t be rushed. It may take us more than one day to locate the Genesis Seeds in New York.”

  “You told us you know where they’re located,” Blade reminded him.

  “We believe we know,” Captain Wargo amended his statement. “We think our earlier teams did find the building they’re in, but we rea
lly won’t know for certain until we descend to the underground vault and examine it.”

  “Terrific!” Hickok muttered. “We come all this way, and it could all be a wild-goose chase!”

  Captain Wargo twisted in his seat and glanced at each of them. “Don’t you understand how important this is?”

  Hickok chuckled. “How can we forget with you remindin’ us every two seconds?”

  Captain Wargo’s jaw muscles tightened. “I’m sorry if I seem to dwell on the subject, but the future of mankind is at stake.”

  Geronimo suddenly leaned forward, pointing directly ahead. “Do you see what I see?”

  Blade nodded. He’d seen it too. A giant metal fence across the highway ahead, its gleaming strands stretching into the distance on both sides of U.S. Highway 12.

  “What the dickens is that?” Hickok queried.

  As the SEAL drew nearer, Blade could ascertain more details. The fence was 15 feet high and tipped with four strands of barbed wire. Bright gray in color, the fence was a heavy-gauge mesh affair with peculiar metallic lobes or balls imbedded in the mesh at ten yard intervals. Each of these globes was a yard in diameter.

  “You’d better slow down,” Captain Wargo advised. “They’re expecting us, but they might not recognize the SEAL and open fire.”

  Blade could see a gate in the fence, and behind the gate, which was constructed of the same mesh as the fence, reared a huge guard tower.

  Over 30 feet in height and positioned on the left side of the road, it was manned with machine guns and several figures in uniform.

  “You can stop now,” Captain Wargo directed.

  Blade applied the brakes, bringing the transport to a halt ten yards from the gate. “Do you have a fence blocking every road into the city?” he asked.

  “We have a fence completely encircling the city,” Captain Wargo answered.

  “You mean this fence goes all the way around Chicago?” Hickok asked the Technic.

  “Technic City is surrounded by this fence,” Captain Wargo said. “It was built to keep unwanted intruders out. Do you see those regulators in the fence?”