Citadel Run Page 11

  “We’ll find a way,” Blade assured him. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

  “You Family types sure got a lot of cornball sayings!” Bertha remarked.

  “If you think Blade is corny,” Geronimo interjected, “just wait until you see Hickok again. If you peeled his ears, you’d have enough to feed everyone here.”

  “I don’t believe you, man!” Bear snapped testily, annoyed. “You’re cuttin’ jokes after what just happened?”

  “Humor nourishes the soul,” Geronimo said, surprised by Bear’s outburst.

  Blade guessed that Bear was severely disturbed by the massacre, and he tried to assuage Bear’s grief. “As Warriors, we’ve seen a lot of gory sights,” he said slowly. “I’m sure you have too. If you think about it, about the brutality all around you, if you dwell on it and mope over it, it’ll get to you.

  You’ll be depressed all the time, and you’ll become cynical and hard. The tougher things get for us, the more we tend to joke to safeguard our sanity, to prevent us from being emotionally ravaged. It alleviates stress if you concentrate on the lighter side of life.”

  “I think I got you,” Bear stated, “but I don’t think I could do it. I can’t shrug things off the way you guys do.”

  “It’s not that we shrug them off,” Geronimo corrected. “We’re affected by violence, just like you. Only it’s our business, and we learned a long time ago to take it in stride, as calmly as possible. Humor helps immensely. Otherwise, you’d go nuts!”

  “Hey! What are they doin’?” Bertha suddenly asked, aghast, pointing.

  The soldiers were loading the bodies onto the trucks for transport to a disposal site. In the process of carting the corpses to the trucks, they were searching the bodies for any valuables. They were treating the deceased roughly and talking and smiling while they worked.

  “If it’s the last thing I ever do,” Bertha pledged, “I’m going to get Jarvis for this!” She glanced at Blade. “Is Joshua with you this time too?”

  Blade insured none of the troopers were close enough to eavesdrop.

  “Yes, he is. Why?”

  “Because the last time you were here, he tried tellin’ me all about this God business…” Bertha began.

  “You can’t blame God for this,” Blade said cutting her off. “Humans don’t always do what the Spirit leads them to do. Some mortals even shut God out of their lives entirely.”

  “So you say,” Bertha rejoined. “Me, I’m not so sure. I think if I bump into Joshua and he starts yakkin’ about God, and how we live in a universe of love, as he called it, and goes on about how all of us are brothers and sisters…” She paused and smiled at a thought she had. “Then I think, just for the hell of it, I’m goin’ to haul off and sock him in the mouth.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “I don’t understand…”

  “What is it you don’t get, pard?”

  “Well, first you said we had to get out of here right away. Then you changed your mind and said we should sit here until dark. It’s dark, and we still haven’t moved. Why not?”

  “Josh, has anyone ever told you you’re a worry-wart?” Hickok inquired.

  They were seated in the SEAL, Hickok in the driver’s seat, Joshua in the bucket seat across from the gunman. “We stayed put because I wanted to see if anyone would show up to check out all the shooting. No one did.”

  “So?”

  “So that tells me no one is close enough to have heard the shots,” Hickok reasoned. “It also tells me the Army must have done something to the Nomads, Porns, and Horns or they would have showed by now.”

  “Oh.”

  “We also waited until dark because we’ll be able to move without drawing attention to ourselves,” Hickok said.

  “But won’t you need to use the lights on the SEAL to travel at night?” Joshua asked.

  “Uhhhhh…”

  “And won’t the lights attract as much attention as if we were driving in broad daylight?” Joshua asked.

  “Hmmmm. I never thought of that,” Hickok admitted. “Oh well! Well try something new.”

  “New?”

  “Yep. We’ll drive with the lights out. No one will see us then!”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?” Joshua queried. “What if we run into a boulder or a hole in the ground?”

  “Relax. I’m driving, aren’t I? It’s gonna be a piece of cake,” Hickok assured him.

  Despite his bragging, the gunfighter was slightly nervous. He’d only driven the vehicle a few times, and the possibility of damaging the Family’s primary means of transportation disturbed him.

  Joshua sensed the gunman’s uneasiness. “We could always travel by foot,” he offered.

  “We have to find Blade and Geronimo tonight,” Hickok rejoined, “not next year.”

  Joshua leaned back in his seat. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  “Don’t rush me!” Hickok said irritably, agitated because he was in the process of mentally reviewing the proper operation of the SEAL and Joshua’s comment had sidetracked him.

  “I won’t say another word,” Joshua promised.

  Hickok turned the key and the SEAL purred to life. He reached for the gearshift and hesitated. “This will be a mite tricky, doing this in the dark and all. Here goes.” He gingerly shifted the vehicle into Drive. “You all set?” he absently inquired.

  “Yes,” Joshua responded.

  “Then, away we go!” Hickok exclaimed, and pressed on the accelerator.

  The SEAL instantly lurched into motion, rapidly gaining speed.

  Backwards.

  “Blast!” Hickok fumed and tramped on the brake pedal.

  Only a sturdy grip on the dashboard saved Joshua from flying into the windshield.

  “I’ll never understand why mankind gave up the horse for these complicated contraptions!” Hickok complained.

  “Is something wrong?” Joshua questioned, striving to sound nonchalant.

  “I accidentally shifted into the wrong gear because I couldn’t see what I was doing,” Hickok detailed. “Looks like I’ll have to flick on the lights after all.”

  “That would be nice,” Joshua said.

  Hickok pulled on the light control knob and the dashboard lights lit up.

  “Hey! Look at this!” he exclaimed.

  “Look at what?”

  “Don’t you see it? The dash lights are on, but the headlights are still off.

  You must have to pull this here knob all the way out to get the headlights on. Great! Now well be able to drive with the headlights off just like I wanted!”

  “You still intend to travel without running lights?” Joshua queried apprehensively.

  “Yep.” Hickok glanced at the gearshift. “Look at this! What a dummy! I had the thing in Reverse instead of Drive. Isn’t that a kicker?”

  Joshua, thankful there had been open space behind the transport instead of a tree, nodded. “It certainly is.”

  The gunman shifted correctly this time and grinned at his companion.

  “Hi-Yo, Silver!”

  The SEAL took off at a fast clip.

  Joshua tensed, clinging to the dashboard, wishing he were back at the Home with his parents and friends. Why had he ever agreed to Plato’s lunatic proposition to become the Family’s ambassador?

  Hickok carefully weaved the SEAL between the Nomad tents and continued south along Moore Lake. The driving wasn’t as difficult as he anticipated; a full moon in the western sky illuminated the terrain nicely.

  Joshua began to relax, marveling at the gunman’s dexterity and reflexes. “You’re doing very well,” he complimented Hickok.

  “Of course,” the Warrior stated confidently.

  The lake was quiet and peaceful, its surface tranquil, reflecting the light from the bright moon above.

  Hickok rolled down his window and heard an owl voice it’s distinctive

  “who?” from a stand of trees to his left.

  “What happens when we find
Blade and Geronimo?” Joshua inquired.

  “We free them,” Hickok answered.

  “What if we’re outnumbered?”

  “So what? Since when has that stopped a Warrior from doing his duty?”

  Joshua stared at the gunfighter for a moment. “Hickok, can I tell you something?” he asked gravely.

  “I reckon so,” Hickok said. “What is it? You sound so serious.”

  “I know that you and I haven’t always seen eye to eye,” Joshua mentioned.

  “You’ve got that right!”

  “So I just thought you should know I’m really glad you are the way you are,” Joshua said. “I sincerely believe you’re one of the best Warriors in the Family, maybe the very best. I know I have criticized your frequently callous attitude in the past. I know I’ve lambasted your cavalier disposition toward the taking of other lives. But I’ve given the matter considerable thought, and I’ve reached the conclusion I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

  “Does all of that mean you like me?”

  “It means I like you,” Joshua confirmed.

  “Thanks, pard!” Hickok beamed. “I appreciate it.”

  “Actually,” Joshua went on, “I’ve never disliked you. I’ve experienced considerable difficulty adjusting to the reality of life outside our Home.”

  “I know,” the gunman acknowledged.

  “I’m afraid my shock at encountering so much casual violence affected my personal relationships, particularly with you,” Joshua stated.

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Hickok asked.

  “Because I want you to know how I feel. I don’t want you to despise me because I’ve been, at times, such a… jerk,” he concluded.

  “None of us despises you,” Hickok informed the Empath. “I’ll admit I’ve been on your case a lot in the past, but that’s because I couldn’t handle all of your whinin’ every time we killed someone. It took me a while to see that we look at the world differently, Josh, and just because we do doesn’t make either of us wrong. You are the spiritual type, and you tend to view other folks, even those you’ve never met before, as your brothers and sisters. You’re always ready to offer your hand in friendship. Heck, that’s why Plato picked you as the Family ambassador. Me, I’m completely different. I’m a Warrior, and I’m naturally suspicious of everybody, particularly the people we run into outside the Home. I don’t trust nobody until they show me they deserve my trust. As a Warrior, as someone responsible for protecting the Home and the Family, I’ve got to be this way. I’d sooner shoot someone in the head if they look at me crosswise than give them the chance to plug me in the back. I know it’s the opposite of the way you look at things, but I hope you won’t hold it against me.”

  “I’ll never hold it against you,” Joshua guaranteed.

  “Good! Now that that’s settled, let’s go waste some wimps!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The convoy of troop transports and munitions trucks was five miles out of the Citadel when one of the vehicles unexpectedly gained additional weight.

  Yama.

  After leaving the Mason ranch, he had headed due south until he had reached Interstate Highway 80. The traffic on 80 had been sparse; apparently few of the Civilized Zone inhabitants had wanted to travel any farther west than Cheyenne. He had kept going, bearing to the southeast, intending to enter the Citadel from the south, hoping the ploy would thwart any attempts to determine his origination point if he were apprehended. The sun was well below the western horizon by the time he had reached Interstate Highway 25.

  The volume of vehicles had been incredible.

  The vast majority of the nearly ceaseless caravan had been military vehicles of one kind or another: jeeps, troop carriers loaded with armed soldiers, supply trucks, a few noisy half-tracks, and two tanks. Once, a dozen flatbeds had driven past Yama’s place of concealment behind a tree near the Interstate, huge artillery pieces mounted on the back.

  He had wondered how he could successfully join the procession without being detected. The traffic had been moving at forty miles an hour, making a running leap into the rear of one of the trucks an extremely hazardous and unappealing strategy.

  Yama had waited for over an hour at the side of the highway, and just when he had been convinced there was no other recourse but to attempt the running leap, the Spirit had smiled upon him.

  The second of the two tanks had been passing his position, its motor clanking and wheezing as if from old age, when it had coughed and sputtered and the night had been rent by a loud clanging sound. The tank had shuddered, spouting smoke from underneath, and had ground to a stop, completely blocking the traffic behind it. The troop transports ahead of the tank had continued on their way, oblivious to its plight. Behind the tank had been six more flatbeds with missile launchers on the beds. The flatbeds had slowed and pulled up behind the disabled tank.

  Yama had suddenly found himself abreast of one of the flatbeds. Except for the driver and a fellow rider in the cab, the flatbeds had been deserted.

  The base of each missile launcher had been covered with a heavy tarp as protection from the elements.

  “What the hell is the holdup?” the driver of the first flatbed had bellowed.

  A soldier had emerged from the stricken tank to examine the underside. “It looks like we blew our motor!” he had called to the flatbed driver. “Damn piece of junk!” He had kicked the treads in frustration. “If they don’t complete that new factory soon, this whole Army will be as useless as a tin can with both ends missing!”

  “Is there any way you can get your tank to the side?” the flatbed driver had asked. “We can try and go around you.”

  “No problem!” the tank trooper had yelled. “Give me a minute and I’ll throw it into Neutral. When I shout out the hatch, give me a push!”

  “Got ya!” the driver of the flatbed had responded.

  Yama had scanned the highway behind the final flatbed, encouraged to find the road free of traffic. But he had known the situation wouldn’t last long, that soon headlights would appear from the south and ruin his golden opportunity.

  There had been a call from inside the tank, and the first flatbed had inched forward until its front bumper nudged the tank. Slowly, its engine whining, the truck had been able to move the tank to one side, to the right, clearing a path for the other vehicles to proceed.

  A head had popped out of the top tank hatch. “Thanks! When you get to the Citadel, would you let the Motor Pool guys know what happened and tell them to get their lazy asses out here on the double? The brass want this baby operational for the attack.”

  “I’ll let the Motor Pool know first thing,” the flatbed driver had promised.

  The procession of flatbeds had begun to move out.

  Yama had waited.

  The first flatbed had driven past the tank, its gears grinding as it gained speed.

  Not yet.

  The second truck had curved by the tank and followed the first.

  Not yet.

  The next three flatbeds had done likewise.

  Now!

  Yama had darted from behind the tree as the last of the flatbeds had started to roll. He had glanced over his shoulder, staring southward.

  He had seen the feeble gleam of approaching headlights in the distance.

  Yama had run, covering the ground in a surge of speed, hoping the troopers in the cab were concentrating on the tank and not looking in their rearview mirrors. The flatbed had been doing about ten miles an hour when he had leaped, landing on the tarp spread over the base of the missile launcher.

  His fingers probed around the edges and found a loose flap. In another moment, he was under the tarp and crawling toward the front of the truck. He was four feet from the cab when the tarp ended. Cautiously, he raised the edge of the tarp and glanced up.

  There was a small window in the rear of the cab, open to allow for some ventilation.

  “…feel sorry for that tank crew. As busy as the Motor Pool
will be tonight, that tank will be stuck there until morning,” one of the men in the cab was saying.

  “I can’t believe all the hardware they’re using on this operation,” commented the second man. From the direction of the voice, Yama deduced this one was the rider.

  “All of this just to wipe out a lousy bunch of jerks on a few horses,” groused the driver. “Doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “The Cavalry has more than just a few horses,” corrected the rider. “I hear tell they have seven hundred horsemen.”

  “Big deal!” scoffed the driver. “What good are seven hundred horses and guys with rifles and handguns going to do against all of our equipment, even if our stuff is on its last legs?”

  “You know Samuel,” said the rider. “He always has to play it safe. This time, though, I think he’s planning to beat the Cavalry in one fell swoop. I don’t think he wants a repeat of what happened in Montana with those damn Indians!”

  “Yeah!” The driver laughed. “They would of beat us if it hadn’t of been for the Doktor and his gas.”

  “I don’t know if they would have beat us,” disagreed the rider, “but they could have holed up in Kalispell a lot longer than they did.”

  “I wonder if Samuel sent the Doktor a thank-you note,” joked the driver.

  “Don’t do that!” snapped the rider.

  “What’s eating you?”

  “Don’t make fun of the Doktor or Samuel. You know they have ears everywhere. They could even have this cab bugged!” stated the rider, sounding scared.

  “Don’t be such a crybaby!” laughed the driver. “I went over this cab with a fine-tooth comb before we left Denver. It’s clean as a whistle.”

  “You hope.”

  “I know.”

  “Listen,” said the rider, “can’t we talk about something else? I get nervous discussing the Doktor or Samuel.”

  “Sure we can,” concurred the driver. “I expect we’ll have the rest of the night free, since they’re not planning to move us out until tomorrow morning…”

  “Where’d you hear that?” queried the rider.