The Fox Run Page 12

  “The pen? What’s that?”

  “It’s a place where you’ll be able to flap your gums all you want, bitch.”

  The Trolls cackled.

  “Now move your asses!” Saxon yelled. “Or else!”

  So much for Mr. Nice Guy, Jenny reflected. She sadly gazed over her left shoulder.

  Where was Blade?

  Chapter Ten

  Plato was tired.

  With the assistance of some of the Family members, he had loaded all of the Alpha Triad’s provisions, food and ammunition and medical supplies, into the SEAL. There were two bucket seats in the front of the vehicle, one for the driver and the other for a passenger. Between the bucket seats was a control console for several of the SEAL’s special features. Behind the bucket seats was another seat, running the width of the transport. Behind this rear seat was a large area for storage. Two spare tires and tools were kept in a recessed compartment under the storage area.

  Plato walked to the SEAL, the vehicle gleaming in the afternoon sun, and opened the driver’s door. Under the dashboard, in the center, hung a red lever. Plato gripped the lever and pushed it to the right. The Operations Manual explained that this lever would activate the solar collector system, if it was still properly functional.

  “Any word on this mechanical critter, old-timer?” asked someone behind him.

  Plato turned.

  Hickok, Blade, and Geronimo were fully armed, ready to go. Blade was giving Hickok a dirty look.

  “I will know more in an hour.” Plato grinned. “The Operations Manual states that the solar energization process takes sixty minutes to achieve optimum performance levels. Every morning of your journey, one hour before you intend to drive, place the red lever under the dashboard in the right-hand position.”

  “Fine by me,” Hickok said. “But I’ve got one question.”

  “Which is?” Plato rolled down the driver’s window.

  “What the blazes is a dashboard?”

  “Haven’t you studied the books in the library dealing with modes of transportation?” Plato inquired.

  “Sure.” Hickok shrugged. “But mainly I just looked at the pictures of the cars and the trucks, specially some of those race cars. Imagine being able to travel at over one hundred miles an hour! I never got into the mechanical aspect, though.”

  “Suffice it to say, you have a lot to learn. All of you. Take the Operations Manual with you and read it as you travel. Earlier I placed the additives in the engine. They were stacked in cartons in the chamber housing the SEAL all these years.”

  “Additives?” Blade repeated.

  “Yes. The engine in the SEAL is unique, unlike any in the world at the time of World War Three. It’s described as self-lubricating when in truth a small amount of lubricant must be added before it can operate.”

  “Do you really think the SEAL will work?” Geronimo queried. “After all this time?”

  “I honestly can’t say.” Plato sighed and leaned against the transport.

  “The Founder had confidence it would. He spent a sizable portion of his fortune devising it.”

  “What’s this?” Hickok bent over and picked up a yellow can from the ground near Plato’s feet.

  “It’s one of the additives,” Plato explained.

  Hickok sniffed at the opening Plato had made in the top of the metal can. “Smells awful,” he commented, scrunching up his nose. “Glad we don’t drink this stuff.”

  “The SEAL drinks that stuff,” Plato stated, smiling. “One can every fifty thousand miles. We’ll need to retain a record of the odometer mileage.”

  “What the blazes is an odometer?” Hickok asked.

  Plato sighed.

  “Blade!” a woman abruptly yelled, urgency conveyed in her strident tone.

  The men whirled.

  Nightingale was running their way, her brown hair flying.

  “What is it?” Blade demanded as they moved to meet her.

  Nightingale bent over, almost out of breath. “The Troll…” she managed to say before she began wheezing.

  Plato placed his left hand on her shoulder. “Take your time. Breathe slowly.”

  Nightingale was gulping air. She had covered the two hundred yards from C Block as fast as her legs would carry her.

  “What is it?” Blade asked her again.

  “The Troll got away!” she finally exclaimed.

  “What?” Blade gripped her arms. “How? Where did he go?”

  “We were tending him,” she explained, “fixing his wound, when Rikki asked Joshua to watch the Troll while he went outside and undo his ropes, said his circulation was being cut off. I objected, but it didn’t do any good.

  Joshua untied the Troll’s hands, and before we could prevent it, too fast for us to do anything, the Troll picked up a chair and hit Joshua, knocking him down. One of the other Healers screamed. Rikki came running in, and the Troll got him as he came through the door. The Troll took Rikki’s sword. He was coming this way. Didn’t you see him?” She was out of breath again.

  “He ran behind E Block,” Hickok deduced, “keeping the building between him and us.”

  “He’s making for the east wall,” Geronimo speculated.

  “Get him,” Blade ordered, looking at Geronimo. “You’re the fastest. Besides, Hickok and I aren’t in any shape for a foot race.”

  Without another word, Geronimo wheeled and ran in pursuit of the Troll. He carried his Browning in his right hand as he concentrated on maintaining a steady pace. No sense in tiring himself out too soon. There were acres to go and the Troll had a head start. How far ahead was he?

  A scream shattered the heat of the day, coming from the area of the cabins.

  Now he knew. Geronimo hastened his pace, dreading the worst. If only the lookout on the wall had spotted the escaping Troll! He would have sounded the alarm, blown the horn, and alerted the entire Family to the threat.

  Someone was sobbing.

  Geronimo reached the first row of cabins. A woman was on her knees next to a fallen man, blood covering his chest. She glanced up as Geronimo approached and pointed due east.

  “He went that way!” she shouted, tears filling her eyes. “He cut Jefferson! Cut him bad!”

  Several others were gathering.

  “Get the Healers!” Geronimo told them as he passed. There was little he could do for Jefferson; insuring the Troll did not escape was his first priority. If the Troll got away, you could bet he would flee to Fox and warn the other Trolls that a rescue party was definitely on the way. Geronimo frowned. He couldn’t allow that to happen.

  Birds were singing in nearby trees. Butterflies wafted on the wind.

  Geronimo ignored the scenic beauty as he plowed into the cornfield, the sharp leaves lashing at his arms. He disregarded the stinging sensation and focused his attention on his body, pushing it as far as he could. His leg muscles were beginning to tighten.

  Field after field passed.

  Geronimo marveled at the ease with which he could navigate the terrain, compared to his slow pace of the night before when he wasn’t sure of what was what.

  The moat was closer.

  If he remembered correctly, there was one last field, a stand of trees, a cleared space and the moat.

  Still no sign of the Troll. How was he expecting to scale the wall? Had the Trolls hidden ropes and grappling hooks along the moat?

  Geronimo reached the trees, limbs pulling at him as he dodged between two trunks and stopped, searching the moat for any sign of the Troll.

  The movement of his head saved his life.

  As Geronimo looked right his peripheral vision detected the flashing gleam of the katana blade as it sliced at his neck. He twisted, automatically bringing up the Browning, holding the stock in his left hand and the barrel in his right, blocking the katana. The clang of metal striking metal was loud, reflecting from the wall and seeming to fill the cleared space.

  The Troll kept coming, swinging the sword again and again, bear
ing down, keeping the pressure on, preventing Geronimo from using the Browning.

  Geronimo back-pedaled, waiting for an opening, thankful the Troll wasn’t skilled in Tegner.

  Kurt Carpenter had stocked almost five hundred thousand books in E

  Block, the books he envisioned the Family would require to overcome the obstacles it would face. Survival books. Hunting and fishing.

  Metalsmithing. Natural Healing. How-to books proliferated. He had provided two dozen books on hand-to-hand combat written by a man named Bruce Tegner. Each of the books contained concise, step-by-step diagrams and instructions, complete with detailed photographs of every movement and position. The library contained Tegner’s books on judo, jujitsu, karate, aikido, jukado, kung fu, savate, and numerous other styles of martial combat. Tegner’s books were the Family’s source of tutelage in the martial arts, and the training sessions eventually became known as Tegner sessions, or simply Tegner. The Family Elders shared the responsibility of training the younger Family members during their schooling years. One of the Elders, a former Warrior, conducted classes in the art of Tegner. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was his star pupil.

  Geronimo silently thanked the Great Spirit that this Troll was no Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.

  The Troll was clumsily striving to force the katana past the Browning, to pierce Geronimo’s guard and disembowel him.

  Geronimo was holding his own. He detected a trace of fatigue in the Troll’s swings, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he could bring the Browning to bear. What should he do? Blow the reeking weirdo in half, or take him back to Blade alive?

  The matter was taken from his hands.

  He tripped.

  Geronimo’s right foot caught on a large rock and he fell backwards, hard, his right hand loosing its grip on the Browning and the gun fell to one side.

  The Troll spotted his opening and vented a cry of triumph as he closed in, raising the katana for the coup de grace.

  Geronimo twisted, avoiding the shimmering blade.

  The Troll misjudged the force of his lunge and stumbled.

  Geronimo sprang to his feet, his tomahawks in his hands.

  “I’m going to cut you to pieces!” the Troll boasted.

  “Drop the katana,” Geronimo warned, “and you’ll live.”

  “Screw you!” the Troll bellowed, aiming the blade at Geronimo’s head.

  Geronimo ducked, and as he came up under the blow he buried his right tomahawk in the Troll’s forehead.

  The Troll stiffened, blinked once, gurgled, and fell.

  “There it is!” someone said, and Rikki-Tikki-Tavi emerged from the trees and retrieved his prized katana.

  “Glad you could make it,” Geronimo casually commented. “I’m just fine, thank you. I appreciate your concern.”

  Rikki held the gleaming sword upright in his hands, his eyes carefully checking it for damage.

  “I hope your sword is okay,” Geronimo sarcastically quipped.

  Rikki slowly ran his left hand the length of the shining blade. “Nobody, but nobody,” he matter-of-factly stated, “takes my katana from me. Ever.”

  Geronimo watched the blood oozing from the Troll’s head. “It’s too late to tell him.” He paused, then added an afterthought. “I know a fellow who feels the same way about his Colts, and another who goes to bed at night with Bowie knives at his side.”

  “And you?” Rikki quizzed him. “What about you?”

  Geronimo stared at the tomahawk in his hand. “I see what you mean,” he confessed.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi smiled. “It is the nature of the Warrior.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Plato stood back, appraising the SEAL. He had rechecked the engine, secured the hood, climbed on the roof to examine the solar collectors and underneath to check the special batteries, and verified the dash indicator displayed a full charge.

  Blade, Hickok, and Geronimo were standing beside him. The rest of the Family was gathered around the SEAL, knowing the momentous event was about to occur. The starting of the SEAL.

  “I should warn you,” Plato said to the Alpha Triad. “I’ve done the best I can, but it may not be good enough.”

  “How do you mean?” Blade asked.

  “Despite hours in the library studying various modes of transportation, this is the first motorized transport I’ve encountered. I’ve studied the manual, and in preparation for this day I’ve also perused the entire collection of automotive literature. It’s just that…” He paused, thoughtfully biting his lower lip.

  “What is it, Plato?” Geronimo politely goaded him.

  “It’s just that I can’t guarantee you the SEAL will work as it’s supposed to.” Plato slapped his right hand against his thigh in frustration. “Despite all of my studying, basically the vehicle is alien to me. Reading about something is only a fair substitute for experiencing the reality of whatever you are reading about. Absolutely nothing can take the place of actual experience. Even then, my reading has basically been in vain because the SEAL is unlike any other motorized vehicle in use before the Big Blast.”

  “So what you’re saying,” Hickok said, pondering Plato’s words, “is that this thing could break down in the middle of nowhere and we could find ourselves stranded, surrounded by mutates and only the Spirit knows what else?”

  “I believe you’ve gleaned the gist of my meaning,” Plato admitted.

  “Wish I hadn’t,” Hickok mumbled. “So much for the wonderful world of technology.”

  Joshua, his left shoulder heavily bandaged, joined them. “Are we ready?” he inquired.

  Plato noticed the Warriors ignored Joshua. “We appear to be all prepared,” he proclaimed. He held the keys out. “Who wants to attempt to drive it first?”

  Hickok grabbed the keys before the others could move.

  “Are you certain you’re up to it?” Plato questioned. “You must exercise caution. We can’t afford, to damage this vehicle.”

  “I’ve still got one good wing,” Hickok said, grinning.

  “But are you positive?” Plato pressed him.

  “A piece of cake,” Hickok assured them. He opened the door, climbed into the driver’s seat, then closed the door.

  “Our moment of truth,” Joshua stated solemnly. “I never expected to see the day when we would be riding in a solar-powered vehicle.”

  “We hope,” Blade added. “Well, whenever you’re ready,” he said to Hickok.

  Hickok was staring at the dashboard, his brow furrowed.

  “I thought you said this was a piece of cake.” Plato reminded him.

  “It is,” Hickok replied defensively.

  “Then what’s the problem?” asked Geronimo.

  “How do you start this critter?” Hickok reached out and touched a small vent, his movements, for once, hesitant, uncertain.

  “You place that key in the ignition,” Plato directed, “then turn the key.”

  “That’s nice to know,” Hickok snapped, frustrated. “What the heck is an ignition?”

  Plato restrained an impulse to laugh. He showed Hickok the ignition, Hickok placed the key in the slot and paused, and all of them tensed expectantly.

  “Here goes nothing, pards,” Hickok stated, and twisted the key.

  They were braced, anticipating a loud noise, having read that engines produced a considerable sound, and they were still startled and amazed when the engine kicked over, caught briefly, sputtered, and stopped.

  “I’ve killed it!” Hickok moaned. “I did something wrong!”

  “I don’t believe so,” Plato assured him. “Try again.”

  “You sure?” Hickok asked doubtfully.

  “Trust me. One more time.”

  Hickok took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and turned the key again.

  The SEAL roared to life and the engine idled for a minute, then it abruptly died.

  “Damn!” Blade cursed.

  “Once again,” Plato directed.

  Hickok tried it one more time.


  The SEAL shook as the engine turned over and achieved performance level. The longer it ran, the quieter it became. Within a very short time the metallic rumble was reduced to a muted whine.

  “We did it!” Blade shouted.

  “Yahoo!” came from Hickok.

  The Family cheered wildly.

  “Thank the Spirit,” Joshua said, touching the Latin cross he wore around his neck.

  “It functions,” Plato said to himself. “It actually functions.” He could scarcely accept the evidence of his own eyes. The Founder’s vision had actualized, had borne fruit! The SEAL, the unique and exclusive prototype for a generation of vehicles the world would never know, was operative!

  “How do I make this thing move?” Hickok wanted to know.

  “Push down and back on that lever.” Plato pointed at the shift. “Watch that small gauge in front of you, above the steering column. A small arrow should stop on the letter D.”

  Hickok gingerly shifted as instructed.

  “What next?”

  “Do you see those two pedals on the floor by your right foot?” Plato asked.

  Hickok glanced down at the floor. “Yep. I see ’em.”

  “Well, to initiate motion, the Manual says we should press down on the right pedal,” Plato stated.

  Hickok nodded his understanding, raised his right foot, and forcefully tramped down on the accelerator.

  Pandemonium erupted.

  The SEAL lunged forward, and only fleet feet and quick reflexes enabled those Family members standing directly in front of the transport to leap aside before they were run over. Several women screamed, children bawled, and a few of them shouted an unflattering term or two in Hickok’s direction.

  The SEAL was racing across the compound.

  Hickok’s petrified face appeared, protruding through the open driver’s-side window. “Help! How do I stop this blasted critter?” he shouted. The SEAL hit a deep rut, the motion lifting Hickok and cracking his head against the roof. He winced and concentrated on steering the SEAL in a straight line.

  Blade ran to Plato’s side. “How does he stop it?”

  “If he’d only remove his foot from the right pedal, it would slow down,” Plato answered.