Dallas Run, page 2
part #20 of Endworld Series
“Can I come a little closer?” Marta requested, and nudged the white horse with her ankles before Whitney could answer.
“That’s close enough.”
“I won’t bite,” Marta said, and grinned impishly, advancing nearer, to within 15 yards.
“Stop!” Sergeant Whitney barked.
She reined up. “Okay. Okay. Don’t lay an egg. I can’t believe hunks like you two are scared of little old me.”
“We can’t take any chances,” Sergeant Whitney said. “There’s a possibility you’re infected with a disease.”
“I am not,” Marta responded indignantly.
“Then what are those green spots all over you?”
Marta touched one of the inch-wide irregular splotches on her left thigh. “Do you mean these?”
“What are they?”
She traced the outline of the splotch with her finger. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Miss?”
“Such exquisite design. The Maker is magnificent.”
Sergeant Whitney glanced at his companion. “She needs a psychiatrist,” he whispered, then faced the woman and raised his voice.
“When did you break out in those green spots?”
Marta looked up in surprise. “These? I’ve had these all of my life.”
“You were born with them?” Sergeant Whitney inquired.
“Yes. Some of the Chosen are born with the Mark, some are converted.”
“I’m sure they are,” Whitney said. “Watch her,” he ordered Nelson, and walked into the sentry hut.
“What’s your name again?” Marta asked the private.
“Nelson. Art Nelson.”
“Were you born with the Mark?”
“I wasn’t born with green spots on my body,” Nelson responded.
“None whatsoever?”
“None,” Nelson verified.
“How sad,” Marta declared and frowned. “But then we can’t be blamed, can we?”
“Blamed for what?” Nelson asked.
“For the outworking of the Maker’s will.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“We follow the Lawgiver, and the Lawgiver has decreed the cleansing of the Earth.”
Nelson repressed an impulse to cackle. Her nonsensical talk indicated how severely unbalanced her mind must be. He felt a degree of sympathy for the woman and hoped the doctors would be able to assist her.
“Where are you from?” Marta asked him.
“I was born and raised in Denver,” Nelson disclosed.
“Where’s Denver?”
“North of here about seven hundred and eighty miles.”
“Do any of the Chosen dwell in Denver?”
“Who are the Chosen?” Nelson rejoined.
“You have ears, but you don’t hear,” Marta said, and sighed. “When the final roll call is made, where will you be?”
Nelson didn’t know what to say, so he held his tongue.
“When the final roll call is made, I’ll be counted on the side of righteousness and glory,” Marta said.
“That’s nice,” Nelson replied politely.
“I have served the Lawgiver faithfully for all my years,” Marta went on.
“My name will be entered on the scroll of glory.”
“I hope it’s spelled correctly,” Nelson quipped, looking at the hut. He saw Whitney seated at a table. The noncom’s back was to the sole window, and on the table next to his left arm sat the radio. A headset perched on the sergeant’s head. His shoulders were slumped, as if he was dejected over something.
“I hope you’ll forgive us for our deception,” Maria said.
“Deception?” Nelson repeated absently, still gazing at Sergeant Whitney, mystified because his friend wasn’t moving. Her words abruptly sank in, and he looked up at the woman, befuddled by her comments. “Us? Who are you talking about?”
“Why, my brothers and sisters, of course,” Marta said, smiling sweetly and motioning at the field on the right side of Highway 289.
Dread engulfing him, Nelson pivoted toward the field, his confounded expression transforming into a petrified one at the sight of the grim, unnatural swarm closing on Sentry Post 17. Goose bumps erupted all over his flesh, and he spun toward the hut. “Sarge!” he shouted, taking a stride, only to see two more appear in the doorway as Whitney toppled from the chair.
Marta laughed.
Private Art Nelson raised his M-16, squeezed the trigger, and screamed in abject terror.
Chapter Two
“Do you see them, pard?”
“Nope.”
“What about you, you mangy Injun?”
“No sign of them. And if you call me that again, I’ll scalp you.”
The three men were lying flat on their stomachs on the east side of a low hill, less than a yard below the rim. Trees and undergrowth surrounded them except on the crown of the hill.
“I reckon I’ll take a gander,” proposed the man lying on the right, a lean figure attired in buckskins and moccasins. Around his slim waist were strapped a matched pair of Colt Python revolvers. Blond hair and a blond mustache accented his handsome features. His alert blue eyes narrowed as he edged cautiously higher.
“Do you think it’s safe?” asked the stocky Indian on the left. He wore a green shirt and green pants, both sewn together from the remnants of an old canvas. In contrast to his blond associate, his hair was black, his eyes brown. Secure in a shoulder holster under his right arm rested an Arminius .357 Magnum, while tucked under his deer-hide belt above his right hip was a genuine tomahawk.
“If it’s a trap, we’ll soon know,” said the man in the middle, a seven-foot giant wearing a black leather vest, green fatigue pants, and black combat boots. On each hip rode a Bowie knife snug in its sheath. A comma of dark hair hung above his gray eyes. His most outstanding attribute was his awesome physique; he bulged with layer upon layer of rippling muscles.
Even while lying prone on the ground he emanated an aura of raw power.
“How far are we from the base?” the gunman in the buckskins asked, pausing below the crest.
“I estimate about two hundred yards,” answered the Indian.
The gunman inched to the top and lifted his head for a glimpse of the slope on the opposite side. “All I see are trees and more trees,” he whispered.
“Figures,” the Indian muttered.
“What’s that crack supposed to mean?” the gunman demanded, sliding from the rim.
“It means you couldn’t spot them if they were sitting on the tip of your nose, Hickok.”
“Is that so?” Hickok retorted.
“White men need binoculars to see anything more than ten yards away,” claimed the Indian.
“And I suppose Injuns don’t?”
“Every Indian is endowed with the exceptional vision of an eagle. We can spot a fly at five hundred yards, a bear a mile off. Why do you think your race always used members of my race as scouts and guides back in the ancient times of the Old West?” the man in green responded.
“Because the whites needed somebody who knew which leaves were safe to use,” Hickok cracked.
“Excuse me for interrupting,” the giant said, “but there is the little matter of getting safely through enemy territory to the base.” His voice became stern. “The next one who opens his big mouth will pull extra wall duty for a month. Is that clear, Hickok?”
“Yeah, pard,” the gunman replied, then grumbled. “What a grump!”
“Is that clear, Geronimo?” the giant addressed the Indian.
“Clear as a bell, Blade.”
“Good. Now let’s reach the base without being detected,” Blade proposed. He rose to his knees, scanned the west slope of the hill, and nodded. “The coast is clear. Let’s go.” He stood and jogged over the crest, winding between the trees and skirting any boulders in his path.
Hickok and Geronimo dutifully followed.
Blade came to the edge of a clearing and halted, taking his bearings by the position of the morning sun, calculating he had 150 yards to go. He was about to step into the clearing when he observed a small form scurry into concealment behind a pine tree less than 20 yards to the south. A grin creased his lips.
“There’s one on our trail,” Geronimo suddenly whispered.
Blade glanced over his right shoulder. “Did you see him?”
“No, but I know he’s there.”
The loud snap of a dry twig sounded to their rear, confirming Geronimo’s assertion.
“Okay,” Blade said quietly. “They know where we’re at. Stealth is no longer important. Let’s make a dash for the base.”
“It’ll be a piece of cake,” Hickok said. “Those turkeys can’t catch us.”
“I’m ready,” Geronimo said.
“Then let’s do it,” Blade said, and took off, racing westward, vaulting all obstacles, heedless of the noise he created. A recently tilled field appeared 30 yards ahead, and he bore to the left, intending to go around it rather than disturb the rows of meticulously planted seeds. He was almost to the southwest corner when he realized he’d done exactly as the opposition had expected.
Between the corner of the field and the forest rose an enormous bur oak, 70 feet in height with a stout trunk four feet in diameter. A path ran along the edge of the tilled field, passing within two feet of the tree.
Blade angled onto the well-used path. He came abreast of the bur oak and glimpsed a diminutive shape leaping at him from the cover of the tree trunk. He tried to twist aside, to evade the hand clawing at his vest. Thin fingers snatched at the leather and a squeal of triumph attended the contact.
“I got him!” a childish voice cried.
Hickok and Geronimo fared no better.
The gunman, laughing heartily at Blade’s capture, tried to turn and escape. Instead, he inadvertently collided with Geronimo, and before either could hope to flee another pygmy-sized opponent came around the other side of the tree trunk and slapped both of them on their butts.
“We did it!” the elated winner shouted. “We won!”
Hickok placed his hands on his hips and glared at Geronimo. “Smart move, you cow chip! This is the third time we’ve lost.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to reverse direction?” Geronimo countered. “Do you think I can read your feeble mind?”
“You couldn’t read a first-grade primer without help.”
Blade smiled down at the two boys congratulating one another for a job well done. A third boy burst from the brush and joined their group.
“Did we win again?” the third boy asked.
“They didn’t stand a chance!” stated the boy who had tagged the giant.
He stood four feet in height and possessed a remarkable physical build for his size and age. His eyes were blue, his hair black. A short-sleeved brown shirt and faded blue pants covered his powerful frame. He looked up at Blade. “Did you let us win, Dad?”
“No, Gabe,” Blade answered. “You won honestly.”
“I got my dad and Geronimo!” boasted the second child, who in every respect was a carbon copy of his father; the same blond hair, the same lean figure, even the same style of clothing in the buckskins and moccasins he wore.
“Don’t get a swelled head over it,” Hickok admonished the youngster.
“You wouldn’t have caught me, Ringo, if Geronimo wasn’t such a klutz.”
“My daddy isn’t a klutz!” said the third boy, whose Indian lineage was readily apparent. Like his father, he had on a green shirt and pants.
“Thanks for sticking up for me, Cochise,” Geronimo said, placing his right hand on his son’s left shoulder.
“Wait until Mommy hears we won again!” Ringo said.
“There’s no need to tell her,” Hickok said testily.
“Why not?” Ringo asked.
“Yeah, why not?” Blade added, baiting the gunfighter.
“Well, you know how women are,” Hickok responded.
Blade grinned and crossed his arms on his chest. “No. Tell us.”
“Yeah, tell us,” Geronimo said.
“What are women like, Daddy?” Ringo asked innocently.
“Women are contrary critters,” Hickok said seriously. “They have a hard time understandin’ things that are important to a man, like huntin’ and fishin’ and guns and such.”
“But Mommy likes to hunt and fish, and she has her own M.A.C. 10 and two revolvers,” Ringo pointed but.
“Yeah, but she’s a Warrior like me,” Hickok said, defending his line of reasoning. “She’s not like most women, which is one of the reasons we got hitched.”
“I still want to tell Mommy we beat you three times,” Ringo persisted with the single-minded determination of a young boy who was only eight months shy of his fifth birthday.
“Your mom and your sister have been busy cleanin’ our cabin all morning,” Hickok said. “If we tell Sherry that we’ve been playin’ War Tag, she’ll accuse me of goofing off while she’s workin’.”
“You have been goofing off,” Geronimo said dryly.
“Who asked you?” Hickok retorted.
Blade chuckled and ambled to the west. “All of us should be getting back. Lunch will be in half an hour.” He looked down as his son came up on his left.
“Why does Uncle Hickok always say things that get him in trouble with Aunt Sherry?” Gabriel asked earnestly.
“I can answer that,” Geronimo interjected. “Hickok suffers from the dreaded foot-in-mouth disease.”
“Do you, Daddy?” Ringo asked his father.
“Don’t listen to Geronimo,” Hickok advised. “He thinks he’s a regular comedian.”
“What’s a comedian?” Ringo asked.
“Someone who says and does funny things all the time,” Hickok explained.
“Like you?” Ringo responded.
Blade and Geronimo cackled.
The three men and their sons strolled toward a row of cabins visible 60 yards ahead. Birds chirped in nearby trees. Squirrels scampered on a maple tree they passed. Two white butterflies flitted above the tilled field.
Gabe took hold of his father’s brawny hand. “It sure is nice having you at the Home. I missed you when you were away all the time.”
The corners of Blade’s mouth curled downward, and he sighed and stared at the azure sky. He felt the same way. The past five and a half months had been the happiest he’d experienced in years. Being able to spend precious days with his wife and son had rejuvenated him, had improved his disposition 100 percent. He wasn’t susceptible to as many bouts of temperamental moodiness. Life held meaning again. The seemingly endless cycle of taking on one enemy after another, of battling each and every threat to the Family and the Federation, had been broken.
Except for the fight against the Union the previous month, he’d savored five and a half months of relative peace and tranquility. And he didn’t want the idyllic interlude to end.
Was it only January of last year that he became the head of the Freedom Force? he asked himself. So much had happened since then—so many close friends had lost their lives. Friends who had relied upon him, upon his judgment and ability. What sort of insanity had induced him to try and hold down two posts entailing supremely critical responsibilities simultaneously? He must be an idiot. Unbidden memories flooded his mind.
He owed his first post to the wealthy survivalist who had founded the 30-acre compound in northwestern Minnesota prior to World War Three.
Kurt Carpenter had expended millions of dollars to have the retreat constructed to his specifications. A 20-foot-high brick wall afforded the first line of defense against the bands of scavengers and raiders who roamed the land, pillaging and slaying at will. Barbed wire crowned the wall, and an inner moat flowing along the base of all four sections served as yet another fortification as well as supplying the water for Carpenter’s descendants. The Founder, as Carpenter became known, had dubbed his compound the Home and named his followers the Family.
In a world deranged by a cataclysm of unprecedented proportions, the Home was an oasis of sanity. In a land where civilization had regressed to the level of barbarism prevalent in the Dark Ages, the Family exalted the highest ideals of spiritual brotherhood. Encompassed as they were by hostile elements, the Family would soon perish were it not for the special, elite class of diligently trained men and women whose primary duty was to safeguard the Home and protect the Family, a class known far and wide as the Warriors. Time and again the Warriors had eliminated threats to the Family’s welfare, and in the process the 18 members of the unique fighting group had acquired a respected reputation as formidable adversaries.
The Family had encountered other organized factions devoted to preserving some semblance of prewar culture. Two of the factions were also located in northern Minnesota: the Clan to the west of the Home and the Moles to the east. In the Dakota Territory dwelt the rugged horsemen known as the Cavalry. In Montana the Flathead Indians ruled. A large section of the Midwest was now called the Civilized Zone. And on the West Coast the Free State of California was one of the few states to retain its administrative integrity after the war. Together these seven factions formed a mutual-defense league designated the Freedom Federation.
Naturally, when the leaders of the Federation had decided to form a strike force to deal with any and all menaces, they’d asked Blade to head their brainchild, the Freedom Force.
Which posed a major problem.
Because Blade was already the head of the Warriors.
He chided himself for stupidly agreeing to perform both jobs when his intuition had warned him that he might be biting off more than he could chew. For almost a year he’d commuted between the Home and the Freedom Force facility situated near Los Angeles. For almost a year he’d been lucky to spend more than a week out of each month with his wife and son. For almost a year he’d pushed himself to the limit, ranging from Florida all the way to Alaska on missions against Family or Federation foes.
The toll on his personal life had been devastating. His wife had pleaded with him to devote more time to his family. Both Jenny and Gabe had felt neglected, and they had been profoundly upset by his prolonged absences.
