Capital Run Read online

  Lexine frowned and shook her head. “Nope. Let the buzzards have her.

  We’d best make tracks.”

  “What is your name?” Rikki asked.

  Lexine tore her eyes from Mira. “Oh. I didn’t tell you, did I? I’m Lexine.

  But all my friends call me Lex.”

  “Tell me, Lexine—” Rikki began.

  “It’s Lex,” she quickly corrected him.

  The corners of his thin lips twisted upward. “Tell me, Lex, will the one who escaped return with others?”

  Lex looked at the hill to the east. “Most likely. Terza will want your hide after what you did to three of her Knights. And they want me for trying to skip.”

  Rikki pointed to the west. “Are you up to some running?”

  “Try me,” Lex said gamely.

  They began jogging westward down the middle of the highway, side by side. Lex found herself surreptitiously admiring Rikki’s firm features and his lithe, easy stride.

  “Are we far from St. Louis?” he unexpectedly asked her.

  “Nope,” Lex responded. “St. Louis is about seven miles to the east.

  That’s where I came from.”

  “Why were you leaving?”

  Lex glowered. “I want to live my own life. There has to be something better than the Leather Knights.”

  “What are the Leather Knights?”

  Lex glanced down at him. “You sure aren’t from around these parts.

  Everybody knows about the Leather Knights. They run St. Louis.”

  “You mean they control the city?” Rikki asked.

  “They own the turf,” she clarified for him.

  “Are you a Leather Knight?”

  “I was,” Lex admitted. “But not any more. Now I’m just a traitor to them. They’ll waste me if they get their paws on me again.”

  Rikki looked up into her green eyes. She was at least ten inches taller than him. “We’ll have to see to it they don’t.”

  Lex, for one of the few times in her life, blushed, a pink tinge capping her rounded cheeks.

  “Tell me about these Leather Knights,” Rikki urged her.

  “What’s to tell?” Lex replied. “There’s about four hundred Leather Knights. And there’s about two hundred studs. That—”

  “Studs?” Rikki interrupted.

  “Yeah. The auxiliaries. Each one takes the oath before they get their bike, same as the regular Leather Knights, but of course they don’t have the same privileges.”

  “You take an oath?”

  “Of course. That’s why my life is on the line. We take an oath, a blood oath, to always obey the code of the Leather Knights.” Lex sighed. “Anyone who betrays it is automatically sentenced to death.”

  “They won’t even permit you to leave?” Rikki inquired.

  Lex shook her head, her red hair flying. “Not on your life. When you take the Leather Knight oath, you’re a Knight forever.”

  “And every Leather Knight receives a motorcycle?”

  “Yep. They…” Lex abruptly stopped. “Damn! What an idiot I am!”

  Rikki halted and faced her. “What’s the matter?”

  Lex pointed at the bodies and the three abandoned bikes, now 50 yards distant. “Why didn’t we take one of their bikes?” she demanded.

  Rikki shrugged. “It never occurred to me. I don’t know how to drive one.”

  “Well I do!” Lex exclaimed, annoyed at her stupidity. Why hadn’t she thought of it? Probably because she was too busy thinking of him.

  Rikki gazed westward. “I have some friends about a mile down the road. Perhaps we should use one of those cycles. We would reach them faster.”

  “The faster, the better,” Lex agreed.

  They started running back toward the cycles.

  “You say you’ve never ridden a bike before?” Lex asked.

  “No. I’ve seen photographs of them in books in the Family library, but I’ve never ridden one,” Rikki stated.

  “Then you’re in for a treat,” Lex said. “Riding a bike is the second best feeling I know.”

  “What’s the first?” Rikki innocently queried.

  Lex shot him a puzzled look. “You’re putting me on, right?”

  Now it was Rikki’s turn to appear perplexed. “No,” he assured her.

  Lex laughed. “You really are weird, aren’t you?”

  They ran in silence for several moments.

  “Did you hear that?” Rikki asked.

  “Hear what?”

  “That.”

  From the east, from the other side of the hill, rose an eerie howling.

  “Son of a bitch!” Lex blurted.

  “What is it?”

  “The dogs,” Lex answered anxiously. “The three you wasted and the dummy who got away were probably the advance riders from a hunting party. That dummy, Cardew, must have reached them and they’ve sicced the dogs on us!”

  The howling grew in volume and intensity.

  “There must be at least a dozen,” Rikki speculated.

  “They’ll tear us apart,” Lex said.

  “Not if I can help it,” Rikki vowed.

  They were 20 yards from the bikes when the dog pack appeared on the hill to the east. At the sight of the two people below, their intended quarry, the pack burst into a refrain of baying and barking. Galvanized by the sight of their prey, the dogs loped down the hill and raced toward the man and woman.

  Rikki counted 16 dogs, all of them large and mean, the pack consisting mainly of German shepherds and Dobermans.

  Lexine, her long legs flying toward the cycles, was mentally berating herself for her dumb behavior. Not only had she completely overlooked the possibility of using one of the bikes, but she’d also neglected to retrieve the Charter Arms Bulldog from the biker Rikki had killed with the shuriken.

  She had to get a grip on her emotions. Sure, she found the little guy exceptionally attractive, but that didn’t excuse her mistakes, not when those mistakes could wind up costing her life.

  The dogs were covering the ground in a feral rush. Two of them, a dusky shepherd and an ebony Doberman, were 15 feet in front of the pack and closing at an astonishing clip.

  We’ll never make it! Lexine told herself. She reached the first cycle and grabbed the handlebars even as Rikki swept past her, his katana drawn and held in his right hand, his scabbard in his left.

  The dogs never hesitated. The German shepherd and the Doberman ignored the bodies on the road and bounded toward the man in black.

  Rikki took out the Doberman, the closest one, first, his katana a gleaming blur as he sliced the canine open from its chin to its sternum. He twisted, avoiding the hurtling Doberman and concentrating on the shepherd. Several seconds were required before the Doberman realized the gravity of its wound. It twirled, preparing for another attack, when its front paws slipped on a moist substance coating the highway and it fell.

  Vertigo overwhelmed it, and the Doberman watched helplessly as the man in black hacked off the top of the shepherd’s head with his flashing sword.

  “Look out!” Lex screamed.

  Rikki barely had time to brace himself before the rest of the pack was on them. He dropped his scabbard and assumed chudan-no-kumae.

  Chapter Two

  “He should have been back by now, pard.”

  “We’ll give him a little while yet.”

  “Whatever you want. I’ve just got a bad feeling, is all,” said the first speaker, a lean, blond man with long hair and a drooping mustache dressed in buckskins and moccasins. Strapped around his narrow waist were twin holsters containing a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers. The fringe on his buckskin shirt stirred in the afternoon breeze as he glanced at his traveling companion. “I reckon we should check on him, Blade.”

  The other man slowly nodded. He was a towering giant, a powerhouse with an awesome physique and bulging muscles. His wardrobe consisted of a black-leather vest, green fatigue pants, and black boots. On each huge hip, snug
in its respective sheath, was a Bowie knife. Slung over his left shoulder was a Commando Arms Carbine with a 90-shot magazine, modified to full automatic by the Family Gunsmiths. His dark hair and eyes lent a grim, somber aspect to his appearance. “Maybe you’re right, Hickok,” Blade said to the gunman. “Rikki was only supposed to scout ahead for a mile or two. According to the maps, we’re almost to the outskirts of St. Louis. Whether he saw any sign of the city or not, he should have been back by now.”

  “I just hope he didn’t go and get into a fix,” Hickok griped. “I want to get this assignment over with and return to the Home.”

  “You didn’t need to come along,” Blade reminded him. “This was a volunteer mission. You knew that.”

  “Yeah,” Hickok said wistfully. “When Plato first announced it, I figured I could use the break. Get out of the cabin for a spell. Break the monotony. You know what I mean?”

  Blade nodded.

  “But I miss ’em,” Hickok said sadly. “I miss Sherry and my son. Little Ringo,” he stated proudly. “I want to see ’em both so bad.”

  “I know how you feel,” Blade assured the gunfighter. “I miss my wife and boy too.”

  “Where the blazes is Rikki?” Hickok snapped impatiently.

  Blade gazed to the east, reflecting, recalling the day only three months before when the Leader of the Family, Plato, had called all of them together in the walled compound designated their Home, located in the extreme northwest of Minnesota. “We require volunteers from the Warrior ranks,” Plato had informed them. “As you know, we have established peaceful relations with the Flathead Indians in Montana, with the horsemen known as the Cavalry in the Dakota Territory, and with what’s left of the U.S. Government to the west and south, in the Civilized Zone. We’re also friendly with the refugees from the Twin Cities now living near us, and with the Moles to our east. But we are ignorant of what exists west of the Rocky Mountains and east of the Mississippi River.

  Consequently, the leaders of the various groups I’ve mentioned, which we now collectively refer to as the Freedom Federation, have decided to send an expedition into uncharted land, to venture where none of us have gone in one hundred years. We’ve heard many terrifying rumors about the country east of the Mississippi. We must determine if the rumors are true or mere fabrications. It is imperative we learn if there is any danger to our Family and the Freedom Federation as a whole. We now have fifteen Warriors safeguarding our Home and preserving us from harm. I propose to have the Warriors draw lots, and the three drawing the shortest straws will make the journey. Do you agree?” Plato had asked.

  Blade frowned at the memory. The Family had concurred with their leader, and Plato had held a conference with the head of the Warriors.

  Blade, despite his better judgment, had offered to lead the expedition, to forgo drawing a lot. Plato had gladly accepted his offer. The rest of the Warriors drew lots, and Rikki-Tikki-Tavi and Geronimo had drawn the shortest straws. But Geronimo’s wife, Cynthia Morning Dove, had given birth only a week before the drawing. Hickok had therefore stepped forward and volunteered to go in Geronimo’s place, and Plato had accepted the proposition after Geronimo had reluctantly acquiesced.

  So here I am, Blade told himself. Almost to St. Louis and wishing I was anywhere but here. What a jerk I was to agree to go! And all because I think I can drive the SEAL better than anyone else in the Family, and certainly better than any of the other Warriors.

  The SEAL. The pride and joy of the Founder of the Home, a man named Kurt Carpenter.

  Carpenter had wisely anticipated the advent of World War III. A wealthy filmmaker, he had devoted his millions to constructing a survivalist retreat he had dubbed the Home. Shortly before the outbreak of hostilities, he had invited a carefully selected group to the Home.

  Because the retreat was located hundreds of miles from any primary, secondary, or even tertiary targets, it was spared a direct hit. Thanks to the prevailing high altitude winds at the time of the war, the Home received only minimal dosages of radiation. Carpenter had planned for practically every contingency. He’d stocked ample supplies of every conceivable type.

  His crowning achievement was the vehicle he bestowed on his followers, a vehicle he’d spent a fortune having developed. Carpenter had christened it the Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle—SEAL for short. The SEAL was a van-like transport, green in color, with an impervious body composed of an indestructible plastic. The plastic was tinted, allowing those within to see out but preventing anyone outside from viewing the interior. Four enormous tires allowed the transport to navigate virtually any terrain. The SEAL received its power from a pair of solar panels attached to the roof, which in turn supplied converted energy to six revolutionary batteries mounted under the vehicle. As if all of this weren’t enough, Carpenter had then hired skilled mercenaries to install special armaments in the SEAL. As far as Blade knew, there wasn’t another vehicle like it on the entire planet. He abruptly became aware of Hickok speaking.

  “—listening to me or am I flappin’ my gums for the fun of it?” the gunman demanded.

  “Sorry,” Blade apologized. “What were you saying?”

  Hickok chuckled. “I never realized how much you and my missus have in common,” he quipped.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Blade inquired.

  “It means you’re both pretty darn good at ignoring me at times,” Hickok said. “It must be my introverted personality.”

  “Yeah, right,” Blade responded. “You’re about as introverted as a bull elk during rutting season. What were you—”

  Hickok suddenly held up his right hand for silence. “Shush, pard! Give a listen!”

  Blade complied, his ears straining. “I don’t hear anything,” he declared after several seconds.

  “You’d best clean your ears out,” Hickok cracked, then paused. “Now do you hear it?”

  Blade did. A faint sound coming from the east. An odd noise. Sort of a soft whump-whump-whump. What could it be?

  “There!” Hickok exclaimed, pointing. “See it?”

  Blade saw it. About a mile off to the east, hovering in the air, a huge dragonfly-shaped object.

  “What the blazes is it?” Hickok asked.

  “I don’t know,” Blade admitted. He racked his brain, recalling all the hours spent in the huge Family library personally stocked by Kurt Carpenter. Hundreds of thousands of books on every conceivable subject: dozens upon dozens of how-to books for everything from woodworking to herbal remedies; history books; literature books; religion and philosophy books; photographic books depicting the state of civilization before World War III one hundred years ago; and many, many more. Several of the books were devoted to aviation, and one of the photographs came to mind as Blade watched the aircraft. “I think that thing is called a helicopter,” he remarked.

  “A helicopter?” Hickok repeated doubtfully. “Who would have a functional helicopter? Where did it come from?”

  From far off, from the vicinity of the helicopter, came the sharp retort of gunfire.

  Blade and Hickok exchanged worried glances.

  “Rikki!” Hickok said apprehensively.

  “We’d better check it out,” Blade declared. He turned toward the SEAL, parked behind them in the center of the highway.

  “Look!” Hickok cried. “That contraption is comin’ our way!”

  The helicopter was rapidly approaching them, apparently flying directly over the road, following the course of the highway.

  Blade’s hands dropped to his Bowies. As the craft neared, he could distinguish its features. The helicopter was a dull brown in color with some sort of glass or plastic bubble in the front section and a long metallic tail behind. There was a spinning rotor on top of the craft and another one attached to the rear. Long, metal legs were affixed horizontally to the underbelly of the helicopter.

  “Orders?” Hickok asked.

  The bubble on the helicopter was tinted, just like the body of the S
EAL, preventing Blade from viewing the interior of the craft. He debated the wisdom of remaining in the open, of attempting to persuade the occupants to land, hoping they would be friendly.

  “They’re almost on us,” Hickok said, stating the obvious.

  What to do? Blade hesitated.

  Without any warning, the helicopter abruptly opened up with its machine guns, belching death and destruction from a pair of 45-caliber guns mounted on the front of the craft.

  “Look out!” Hickok shouted, diving to the right as the highway in front of them erupted in a violent spray of asphalt and dirt.

  Blade leaped aside, sprawling onto the ground. Damn his idiocy! How could he forget his favorite motto! Better safe than sorry!

  Several of the rounds struck the SEAL, whining as they ricocheted from its steely structure.

  Blade rolled to his feet.

  Hickok was already on, his Pythons out and angled. As the helicopter passed overhead he fired four times in swift succession.

  The helicopter kept going, circling around for another strafing run.

  “In the SEAL!” Blade commanded. He ran to the driver’s door, yanked it open, and vaulted into the driver’s seat.

  Hickok bolstered his Colts and clambered into the passenger side.

  “Dangblasted varmints!” he muttered as he slammed his door. “Do you reckon they got Rikki?”

  “We’ll check on Rikki after we take care of these bastards!” Blade promised.

  The SEAL was hit again, the screeching of the heavy slugs as they were deflected by the bulletproof body almost painful to the ears.

  The helicopter streaked overhead, swinging for another try.

  “Let’s take ’em!” Hickok said.

  Blade turned the key in the ignition and the engine purred to life.

  The interior of the SEAL had been designed with economy of space in mind. Two bucket seats were in the front, one for the driver and another for a passenger, separated by a console between them. Behind the bucket seats was a wide seat for additional passengers, while the rear section, embracing at least a third of the transport, was devoted to storage space.

  The Warriors had their food, spare ammunition, and other provisions stacked in the rear section.