The Fox Run Read online

  Geronimo slowed a bit, drawing his cherished tomahawks.

  Jenny was being lifted and carried by a pair of the flitters. There were six or seven milling about.

  Hickok saw one of them standing over Blade, a knife in one hand. Blade suddenly thrust his right hand into the neck of his foe, his thick fingers rigid and extended. He surged to his feet and was immediately struck on the head again by another of the forms.

  Time to even the odds a mite. Hickok stopped, crouched, and drew his right Python, the motion a blur, the Colt an extension of his body, firing two shots into one of the things looming above Blade. His friend was prone on the ground.

  One of their attackers whirled and there was the crack of a revolver. His hurried shot went wild.

  So! They had guns too! Whoever they were! Hickok returned the shot, his aim better. The thing clutched at its head and dropped.

  Geronimo had borne a little to the right, and now he closed in, bearing down on one of the figures. They appeared to be men dressed in baggy robes of some sort.

  There was the sound of commotion, gunshots and yells coming from the area of the Blocks. Were there more of them? What were they after?

  Geronimo gave his war whoop and launched himself into the air, slamming into one of them, sending the figure sprawling to the ground.

  Before it could regain its footing, Geronimo swung his left tomahawk, imbedding the edge in the skull of his foe.

  The others were slinking off into cover. Jenny had disappeared.

  Blade groaned and attempted to rise, getting to his knees, still unsteady.

  Hickok was at his side, supporting him. “Whoa there, pard! Take it easy!”

  “Jenny…” Blade mumbled. “Where’s Jenny?”

  Hickok caught Geronimo’s eye and nodded due east.

  Geronimo understood, heading after the ones who abducted Jenny.

  “Jenny,” Blade said softly, struggling to stand.

  “It’s okay,” Hickok tried to assure him. “Geronimo is going after her.

  Those things don’t stand a chance against that red man.”

  “Got to help her,” Blade stated weakly. His head throbbed and blood matted his hair.

  “You’ve got to rest a minute,” Hickok said. “You won’t do her no good trying to catch up in this condition. Leave it to Geronimo.”

  Geronimo was making his way through the cornfield, listening for the slightest noise, hoping his deductions were correct and the attackers were making for the east wall. But why had they taken Jenny? An answer occurred to him and he felt inexplicably cold. Great Spirit! It couldn’t be!

  There was motion ahead. Someone was running through the corn, bearing east.

  Geronimo increased his speed. Slowly he began to overtake his quarry, a solitary running form. Where were the others and Jenny? What if he didn’t catch up with them? Where were they from? How would the Family locate their lair? He needed one of them alive.

  The one ahead of him became aware of pursuit and turned. Too slow.

  Geronimo hit him low, at the knees, toppling him to the turf. He jumped up and struck, the flat side of his right tomahawk smashing against his opponent’s exposed chin. Again. And again.

  The attacker groaned and slumped against the corn stalks.

  Good! The Family had a prisoner.

  But where was Jenny?

  Geronimo made for the east wall. He could track at night, but the task was time-consuming and time was one precious commodity he did not possess at this moment. Apparently, the attackers had entered the Home from the east. It only made sense they would exit the same way. He passed field after field. Stands of trees whisked by. No sign of anyone else, though.

  Even in the subdued light the wall was clearly visible. Incredibly, as he neared the moat, Geronimo spotted several flowing phantoms clambering up the inner wall. How were they doing it?

  The attackers reached the top of the wall and vanished over the side, all save one.

  Geronimo reached the edge of the moat, the water lapping against the bank. He knew it would be useless to swim the moat and attempt to follow them. There was no way he could scale the smooth surface of the inner wall. He gave vent to a rare outburst of anger.

  “Damn!”

  The last of the figures was at the top. It paused, and an eerie, cackling laughter floated down from above. Then the last attacker disappeared over the top.

  “Damn!” Geronimo repeated, wondering how Hickok and Blade were faring.

  Hickok was supporting Blade and moving as rapidly as he could toward the Blocks. Gunfire and shouts punctuated the night. Obviously there had been more than one group of assailants.

  “Jenny…” Blade was saying, over and over.

  “She’ll be okay,” Hickok tried to assure him, grunting at the effort required to carry Blade’s bigger body. “You know, pard,” Hickok added, “far be it for me to criticize a friend in a time of crisis, but you sure as blazes are falling down on the job a lot lately. I think you’re losing your edge.”

  Blade jumped in his arms.

  “Just great!” Hickok muttered. “What next?”

  There was the blast of a shotgun and a woman shrieked from the area of the cabins, some of which were now in view.

  “This is getting awful repetitious,” Hickok said to himself, gently lowering Blade to the ground.

  A rifle cracked to his left.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” Hickok said to Blade, drawing his Pythons. He jogged to the cabins and rounded the rear of the nearest one.

  And ran into bedlam.

  A dozen or more Family members were engaged in frantic, hand-to-hand combat with their mysterious enemies.

  Hickok spotted a dark form on top of one of the Family, beating him on the head with a club. His left Colt bucked and the adversary jerked backwards onto the grass. To his right, twenty feet away, two attackers were trying to subdue a woman, one holding each arm as they endeavored to pull her into the night. Hickok recognized her, Juliet, kicking and twisting in a frightened frenzy.

  “That’s no way to treat a lady,” Hickok announced, gratified when the two antagonists turned his way, even happier when his two shots caught them in the head. “Piece of cake.” He grinned.

  A bullet slammed into Hickok from behind, catching him in the fleshy part of his left shoulder, spinning him around, shocking him.

  I can’t believe it! Hickok thought. I’ve been shot! He glanced down at his shoulder, aware of a vague numbness, surprised at the lack of pain. Guess he never really expected it to happen to him!

  “So long, sucker!” stated a gruff voice. “You’ve wasted your last Troll!”

  Troll?”

  A fist hammered into Hickok’s stomach, doubling him over. The next blow, on the right cheek, knocked him to his knees.

  Got to concentrate, Hickok realized, his stomach sore and his cheek throbbing. This is getting serious!

  There was the click of a hammer being drawn back.

  Hickok gazed up, into the barrel of a Marlin 45-70, the rifle only inches from his head. He was still holding the Pythons and he tried to bring them into play, amazed when his arms refused to respond.

  The Troll laughed. “Any last request, asshole?” he taunted the gunman.

  “Just a comment,” Hickok replied. “You talk too much!” He rolled, sweeping his legs under the Troll. The Marlin blasted close to his left ear as the bulky form fell. Hickok’s left arm was still numb, but he forced his other arm to steady the Python as he planted a slug between the Troll’s eyes.

  Two other Trolls disappeared in the darkness.

  His ears ringing, Hickok rose to his feet.

  The fighting was winding down.

  A tall Troll, armed with a double-edged axe, started to follow his retreating companions, but he inexplicably paused, hefting the axe in his hairy hands.

  Hickok, about to shoot the Troll, hesitated, wondering why the man had stopped. He understood when he heard the piercing kiai, the focused cry of a
martial-arts master, and saw Rikki-Tikki-Tavi dart into view.

  The Troll with the axe charged, swinging.

  Rikki danced to one side, his left foot flicking out, connecting, shattering his opponent’s right knee, staggering the Troll. Rikki swung his katana, the razor-keen blade severing the Troll’s head from his body. Blood gushed out, resembling a miniature geyser. The arms flopped twice and the body toppled over.

  “You sure are messy, pard,” Hickok observed wryly.

  “Are you seriously hurt?” Rikki asked, noting Hickok’s shoulder.

  “Just my pride,” Hickok replied. “But I have learned a very valuable lesson tonight.”

  “Oh?” Rikki-Tikki-Tavi scanned the area. Bodies were everywhere. There was no sign of the intruders. Family members were assisting injured companions. “What’s that?”

  “I’ll never, ever make fun of a certain mongoose again.”

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi laughed.

  Chapter Eight

  Plato, standing near the SEAL in front of E Block, gazed over the assembled Family and felt tears moistening his tired eyes. The early morning sun was bright, glaring, causing him to squint as he addressed them.

  “Last night was the worst night in Family history! And do you know whose fault it was? Ours!” There were murmurs among the Family members, many shifting uncomfortably. Plato averted his eyes. He could scarcely stand to see the injured, to look at his maimed loved ones, to observe their saddened expressions. It wouldn’t do, though, to permit them to perceive his sorrow. He must be strong, befitting a Leader.

  “It was our fault because we became complacent,” Plato said, confronting them with the truth. “Over the years we’ve become sloppy, careless. In the early days, right after the Big Blast, the Family posted Warriors on every wall at night, not just the west wall.” He sighed, weary to his core. “We began believing we were secure in the Home, safe from attack. Who could scale our tall walls? Who would dare assault us? Well, we have our answer, and a terrible price has been paid for our folly. I know you must have many questions about last night, and here is the man with the answers.”

  Plato beckoned and Hickok stepped alongside him. Geronimo was leaning against the SEAL.

  Blade was still in C Block, being tended to by the Healers.

  “We know how they got in,” Hickok began, holding aloft a long rope with a grappling hook attached to one end. He used his right arm. His left was pressed against his side. The Healers had informed him the wound was not serious. They had applied therapeutic herbs and a compress and argued when he stubbornly refused to accept a sling. “We found this still attached to the top of the east wall. They apparently used these to scale the outer wall. Once on top, they used wire cutters to get past the barbed wire. From there it was easy to climb down the inner wall, swim the moat, and do what they came here to do. We think there were two groups. One came over the east wall, the other over the south. Our initial estimates place their strength at about two dozen.”

  “How many did we get?” someone asked.

  “We killed eleven and took one alive,” Hickok answered. “But what’s of more concern to us is the damage they inflicted. Four of our Family were killed, nine injured, and…” He paused, reluctant to continue. “And eight of the women were taken captive.”

  A young woman of seventeen started crying. “Where’s my mom?” she asked Hickok. “Where’s Lea?”

  The gunman experienced a lump in his throat. “We’ll find her, Cleopatra. Don’t worry.”

  “Is that a promise?” she inquired, tears streaking her face.

  “That’s a promise,” Hickok responded, a harsh edge to his voice. “The women,” he said, speaking louder so those in the back of the group could hear him, “were the primary target.”

  “Why?” a man wanted to know.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Hickok retorted.

  “Do we know where the women were taken?” a woman demanded.

  “We’ll know shortly,” Hickok assured her. “Any more questions?”

  There were none.

  Plato stepped forward. “Take time to rest and eat. We will hold another Family conclave when the sun is directly overhead. Plans must be made to add new members to our Warrior ranks and revise our defense strategies.

  Don’t fear for our female friends and loved ones! We will be sending Warriors to retrieve them.” Plato faced Hickok. “Where is our prisoner being restrained?”

  “The one Geronimo caught is in there,” Hickok replied, jerking his right thumb at E Block.

  “Let’s question him.” Plato led the way into the building. Hickok and Geronimo followed.

  Just inside the doorway, bound hand and feet, propped on his knees, was the captured Troll. E Block was the Family library, the main source of diversion and entertainment. Kurt Carpenter had personally selected the thousands upon thousands of volumes lining the cramped shelves.

  Standing immediately behind the Troll, katana in hand, was Rikki.

  “Has he spoken?” Plato asked Rikki.

  The head of Beta Triad simply shook his head.

  Plato studied their captive. The man was young, maybe in his twenties, with brown hair worn long, falling to the center of his back, and an unkempt heard. His brown eyes glared defiantly up at them. His attire was unusual, even by Family standards, consisting of a loose-fitting tunic, covering him from his neck to his knees, and a large cloak or robe and sandals. Both the tunic and the cloak were constructed from bear hide. He was filthy and his body reeked.

  “I understand you are called a Troll,” Plato stated, hoping to elicit a response.

  He was successful.

  The Troll spat on him.

  Before Plato could intervene, Hickok backhanded the Troll on the mouth, knocking him to the concrete floor.

  “Please.” Plato grabbed Hickok’s right hand. “We mustn’t descend to his level.”

  “It’s the only level he’ll understand,” Hickok snapped.

  The Troll giggled, rising to his knees again.

  “Where are your fellows taking our women?” Plato asked him.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” the Troll answered, leering at them.

  “If you tell us,” Plato told him, “we’ll release you.”

  “A Troll never rats, you old bag of bones!”

  “We must know,” Plato insisted.

  “I’ll never say a word,” the Troll confidently stated.

  “Yes, you will,” said a new voice.

  Blade was standing in the doorway, naked from the waist up, his skin caked with patches of blood. The Healers had tended to a gaping gash in his head, caused by the edge of a hatchet. Just a shade lower, and he would not have recovered.

  “I ain’t tellin’ you nothing, asshole!” the Troll declared, grinning at Blade.

  Blade slowly entered E Block. He drew his right Bowie.

  “Blade, don’t!” Plato exclaimed.

  This time it was Hickok who clamped his good hand around Plato’s narrow left wrist and held fast. “Sorry, Plato. Can’t let you interfere with my pard,” he apologized.

  Blade reached the Troll. His lips were compressed, a thin line of restrained rage, his features hard, his grey eyes glaring.

  “If I were you,” Hickok advised the Troll, “I’d speak up real quick like.”

  “You don’t scare me,” the Troll arrogantly countered.

  Blade used his left hand to grip a handful of the Troll’s hair above his right ear. He began cutting the hair close to the scalp. The Troll bucked and attempted to pull loose, but Rikki seized him by the shoulders and pinned him in place.

  “What are you doing?” the Troll demanded, his tone tremoring.

  Blade finished cutting the hair. “I am going to ask you this only once,” he said quietly. “Where are the Trolls based?”

  “Blade, don’t!” Plato reiterated, sensing what was coming.

  “Kiss off, bastard!” the Troll roared at Blade.

  Calmly, precisely
, Blade slashed the Troll’s right ear off.

  The Troll screeched at the top of his lungs, pain staggering his senses, heaving against his bounds and striving to rise. Rikki maintained his iron grip. Jagged folds of flesh hung where the ear had been. Blood seeped down his side.

  “You prick!” the Troll bellowed at Blade. “Prick! Prick! Prick!”

  “You have to admire his vocabulary,” Geronimo commented.

  Blade crouched and pressed the bloody point of his Bowie against the Troll’s crotch.

  The Troll froze, his eyes widening in abject fear.

  “Now that I have your undivided attention,” Blade said softly, “I’m going to ask you some questions. If you don’t answer them, if you pause to so much as sneeze, I’m going to push my knife clear through your balls. Do you understand?”

  The Troll nodded, his body quaking uncontrollably.

  “Good.” Blade applied slight pressure to the Bowie. “Where are the Trolls based?”

  The Troll tried to speak, his lips twitching, his throat bobbing.

  “I can’t hear you,” Blade goaded him.

  “F… F… Fox,” the Troll blurted.

  “Fox?” Blade repeated. “Where or what is Fox?”

  “There is, or was, a town called Fox on the map of Minnesota,” Plato recalled. “East of here a ways.”

  The Troll quickly nodded his head, his hair flying. “That’s it! That’s the place!”

  “How did you get here?” Blade inquired.

  “What do you mean?” The Troll required an elaboration.

  “On horses, some mechanical means, or foot, what?”

  “On foot. What’s a mechanical means?” The Troll appeared confused.

  “Why did you attack us?”

  The Troll almost grinned, but caught himself in time. His eyes rested on the gleaming Bowie and he gulped. “We wanted to get as many of your women as we could.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re always running out of them.”

  “Running out of women?” Now Blade was the one who was puzzled.

  “Why?”

  “They’re always dying on us. Can’t hack it, I guess.”