Denver Run Page 2

  Mitchell’s mind was racing. He knew it would be tantamount to an act of treason to disclose the information the gun fighter wanted.

  “Two.”

  Mitchell’s mouth was abnormally dry. He wasn’t a coward, but he disliked the prospect of dying needlessly. What purpose would it serve to be—

  “Three,” Hickok finished his count.

  Before Mitchell could find his voice, the Warrior pulled the trigger. The blast was deafening.

  Geronimo shook his head and sighed. “Now look at what you’ve done.”

  Hickok’s moccasined right foot flicked out and nudged the form at his feet. “Kind of pitiful, ain’t it? They sure don’t make soldiers like they used to.”

  Chapter Two

  Where had they all gone?

  The huge man stood on the crest of a low hill, in the very middle of U.S.

  Highway 287, and gazed to the south. In the distance could be distinguished the outskirts of Fort Collins, Colorado. His scouts had just informed him the city was deserted, utterly devoid of life, abandoned.

  What the hell was going on?

  Despite the freezing temperature, the big man was only wearing a black-leather vest and fatigue pants, as well as a pair of moccasins, the traditional Family attire. His arms, both bulging with extraordinarily massive muscles, seemed impervious to the frigid conditions. Piercing gray eyes surveyed the terrain ahead. The wind stirred his dark hair, causing his bangs to fall down above his right brow. His brawny hands rested on the handles of his matched set of Bowie knives, one knife on each hip, the sheaths attached to his brown deerskin belt.

  Why would they do it? Evacuate an entire city?

  The sun was poised in the eastern sky, heralding the dawning of a new day. A flock of sparrows frolicked in a field to his right, chirping happily, enjoying the November morning.

  Was it a ploy? Were they trying to lure him into a trap?

  He glanced over his right shoulder at the convoy waiting on the highway below: 3 jeeps, a half-track, and troop transports. The 3 jeeps, the half-track, and 2 of the troop transports had been confiscated from soldiers in the Twin Cities. The remaining vehicles had been appropriated after the battle in Catlow, Wyoming, the conflict referred to as

  “Armageddon” because of its significance to the Freedom Federation.

  The Freedom Federation. He faced front, reflecting.

  Initially, the idea for the Freedom Federation had been proposed by the Leader of the Family, the wise and wizened Plato. The Family couldn’t hope to oppose the Civilized Zone on its own. Fortunately, the Family knew of three other groups, three other organized, or partially organized, outposts of humanity struggling to make a go of it amidst the rubble and ruins of a once-mighty civilization. One of these groups, called the Moles, lived in a subterranean city 50 miles east of the Family. The second group, now known as the Clan, had once dwelt in the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul. With the Family’s assistance, the occupants of the Twin Cities migrated to a small, desolate town in northwestern Minnesota that had been known as Halma. This town was only 8 miles southwest of the Home, the walled compound occupied by the Family. The third group in the Freedom Federation, controlling the territory once known as eastern South Dakota, was the association of superb horsemen called the Cavalry.

  These three groups, in cooperation with the Family, formally signed a peace treaty governing their relations with each other as their first official act. Their second official act was to declare war on the Civilized Zone.

  And here I am, the big man told himself, leading an invasion of the Civilized Zone, our column hundreds of miles inside the enemy province, driving toward Denver, Colorado, the capital and administrative seat of power for Samuel II.

  The man with the Bowies frowned, displeased. Why couldn’t someone else be here instead? Why couldn’t he be back at the Home with his beloved wife, Jenny? Why didn’t Plato—

  “We are ready to move out,” someone said behind him, interrupting his reverie.

  The big man turned. Parked ten yards to his rear was the SEAL.

  Three men stood not five feet away. The speaker was a small man, not much over five feet in height, dressed in black, baggy clothing and holding a katana, a Japanese sword, by its scabbard in his right hand. His Oriental features displayed a degree of concern for the man with the Bowies. “Is anything wrong?” he inquired. “You appear troubled, Blade.”

  Blade shook his head. “I’m fine, Rikki,” he lied.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi didn’t believe Blade was telling the truth, but he tactfully refrained from making an issue of it. If something was bothering the chief of the Family’s Warriors, then Blade would divulge it in his own good time.

  The man on Rikki’s right pointed at Fort Collins. “Do we go in today?”

  he asked his leader. This man was almost as large as Blade. He wore an unusual seamless dark-blue garment sewn together by the Family Weavers. Stitched on the back of this garment was the ebony silhouette of a skull. His hair and his mustache were both a peculiar, distinctive shade of silver, the hair cut short and the mustache drooping around the corners of his mouth. He carried a Wilkinson “Terry” Carbine in his right hand.

  Under his left arm was a Smith and Wesson Model 586 Distinguished Combat Magnum in a shoulder holster; under his other arm was a Browning Hi-Power 9-millimeter Automatic Pistol. A curved scimitar was in a leather sheath strapped to his belt and angled along his left thigh.

  “Yes, Yama,” Blade replied. “We go in shortly.”

  “Why do you suppose we haven’t encountered any opposition?” asked the third man. He was of average build, and dressed all in green, his attire custom-made by the Weavers and patterned after the illustrations of medieval apparel contained in several of the books in the Family library.

  His blond beard was neatly trimmed, jutting forward on his pointed chin.

  Because he wore his hair long, he tied it into a ponytail using a six-inch strip of leather. He clutched a compound bow in his left hand, and a quiver full of arrows was affixed to his brown belt and slanted across his right hip.

  “I wish I knew,” Blade told Teucer. “I can’t imagine why Samuel hasn’t launched a counterattack.”

  “Possibly he has heard about the Doktor,” Rikki remarked.

  Blade nodded. The Freedom Federation Army had confronted the nefarious Doktor in Catlow, Wyoming, and emerged victorious. He stared at his “army.” Filling the troop transports below were 200 fighters from the Clan and 150 Moles. In a field to the east of the highway, mounted and ready to go, were 484 members of the Cavalry. Not much of an army, numerically speaking, but it had proven itself against the Doktor’s forces.

  The head of the Warriors mentally tallied the total: 834. A considerable quantity, to be sure, but the army of the Civilized Zone had to be much larger. Even allowing for massive casualties after Cheyenne had been nuked, the Civilized Zone’s military force still had to outnumber the Freedom Federation’s fighters by at least three to one.

  So where were they?

  Why hadn’t Samuel II’s army appeared?

  Blade gazed at his companions, all Warriors like himself, the only representatives of the Family. Originally, 6 Warriors had departed the Home as the Family’s contribution to the Federation’s fighters, but he had been compelled to send Hickok and Geronimo back to the Home. So he was left with 4 Warriors, counting himself. Compared to the Cavalry’s contribution, 4 seemed like such a paltry number. But since the Family only had 15 Warriors to start with, 4 was more than a fair share.

  A tall horsemen in buckskins, the typical attire of the postwar frontiersman, broke away from the Cavalry ranks below and rode his magnificent palomino up the hill. He reined in and swept the four Warriors with a questioning glance. His hair was a light brown tinged with gray streaks along the temples. Clear blue eyes, deep-set in his rugged features, settled on Blade.

  “Is something wrong? What’s the holdup?” inquired the rider in a husky voice.

/>   “What is this?” Blade snapped. “The question of the day? I don’t see why everyone thinks there’s something the matter!”

  The rider shot a quizzical gaze at Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, who simply shrugged and shook his head.

  Blade was glaring in the general direction of Fort Collins. “Since everyone is so all fired up to get going,” he stated, “get the column moving!”

  “As you wish,” the rider said stiffly. He wheeled his mount and galloped down the hill.

  Yama and Rikki exchanged knowing looks. Yama nudged Teucer’s left elbow, and the two of them turned and headed for the convoy.

  Rikki waited until Yama and Teucer were out of earshot. He walked up to Blade and touched his right arm to get his attention.

  “What is it?” Blade asked him absently.

  “That was no way to address Kilrane,” Rikki mentioned.

  “He should have waited below like I told him to do,” Blade declared.

  “Kilrane is the leader of the Cavalry,” Rikki noted. “He has a legitimate right to express his concerns.”

  Blade sighed and ran his right hand through his tousled hair. “I know,” he said wearily. “I’ll apologize to him the first chance I get.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?” Rikki prompted his friend.

  “It’s the same old story,” Blade commented.

  “Enlighten me,” Rikki goaded him.

  Blade frowned and squatted on his haunches. He idly poked his right index finger into a small hole in the road.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi waited patiently, wishing Hickok and Geronimo were still with the column. They were closer to Blade than anyone else, with the possible exception of his wife, Jenny. Geronimo in particular was adept at cracking Blade’s laconic shell when the hulking Warrior was in one of his infrequent moody spells.

  “You know,” Blade said slowly, “that Plato wants me to become Leader of the Family after he passes on to the higher mansions.”

  “Of course,” Rikki confirmed. Plato’s selection of Blade as his intended successor was common knowledge in the Family.

  “And you’ve probably heard I don’t want the job,” Blade remarked.

  “There is speculation to that effect,” Rikki admitted.

  “Have you ever wondered why I don’t want to become the Leader of the Family?” Blade asked.

  “I assume you have a good reason,” Rikki responded diplomatically.

  “As you well know,” Blade said in a reserved tone, “my father was the Family’s Leader before Plato.”

  “Yes,” Rikki affirmed.

  “And I saw what it did to him,” Blade continued. “I saw how much strain he was under. Having the responsibility of safeguarding the welfare of so many people is an awesome burden.”

  “But don’t you already have such responsibility?” Rikki interjected. “As the leader of the Warriors?”

  Blade shook his head. “Being leader of the Warriors and the Leader of the Family are two entirely different posts. As the top Warrior, I’m responsible for protecting the Family and preserving our Home. My duties are strictly military in nature. But once I agree to become Family Leader, providing the Family goes along with Plato’s recommendation and elects me to the position, the scope of my duties would expand.”

  “Ultimately, every aspect of our life would depend on me. How much food should we grow to see us through each year? How large a stockpile should we keep on hand to see us through the rough times? What if our supplies run low? How do we go about replenishing them if we can’t manufacture what we need? If the children didn’t have enough to eat, it would be my fault. If the climate should take a drastic turn for the worse, as it’s been known to do from time to time, I would be accountable for insuring we have enough food and clothing. The fate of the Family would rest in my hands.” Blade stopped and looked up at Rikki. “It scares me,” he revealed.

  “I’ve never known you to be scared of anything,” Rikki noted.

  “Oh, sure,” Blade went on. “I can face any opponent in combat. But that type of courage is different from the kind a person must have if they’re going to shoulder the responsibility for over eighty people.”

  “You think you lack such courage?” Rikki asked thoughtfully.

  “I don’t know,” Blade honestly confessed.

  “Then why dwell on it?” Rikki asked.

  “Because of what happened in Catlow.”

  “Catlow?” Rikki didn’t understand. The battle with the Doktor had been a resounding victory for the Federation.

  “I made too many mistakes,” Blade stated.

  “What mistakes?”

  “I should have taken more fighters into Catlow,” Blade reprimanded himself. “I should have deployed our forces differently.”

  “But the losses we sustained were minimal,” Rikki pointed out.

  “The loss of even one life is one too many,” Blade philosophized.

  Rikki pondered Blade’s words. Something didn’t quite fit. Suffering casualties in a war was inevitable. Blade knew that. And the strategy they had employed in Catlow had worked remarkably well. Blade knew that too.

  So what was really troubling him?

  The head of the Warriors stood. “Let’s go,” he said. “We’d better join the column.”

  “Wait a minute,” Rikki advised.

  Blade stared at the Family’s supreme martial artist. “What is it?”

  “I’ve been listening to your words,” Rikki stated slowly, “and they don’t ring true. They don’t jibe with the Blade I know.”

  “We can finish this discussion later,” Blade suggested, starting to walk off.

  “Let’s finish it now,” Rikki recommended. “We should clear the air before you inadvertently insult one of our friends again.”

  “I’ve said all I’m going to say,” Blade stated impatiently, obviously reluctant to continue their conversation.

  “Then allow me to have my say,” Rikki countered, hoping his insight was correct.

  Blade folded his muscular arms across his expansive chest. “Go ahead. Speak your piece.”

  “I may not know you as well as Hickok or Geronimo,” Rikki began, “but I’ve known you since our childhood. I think I can accurately gauge your motives in this instance.”

  “You think so, huh?” Blade interjected skeptically.

  “Hear me out,” Rikki urged. “I don’t think you’re afraid of the responsibility a Family Leader must shoulder. After all, you’ve been the top Warrior for, what, four years? If you couldn’t handle responsibility, you would have resigned your post a long time ago. Next to being the actual Leader of our Family, the position of chief Warrior entails the most responsibility of any other vocation. No,” Rikki concluded, “it’s not the responsibility.”

  “Then what is it?” Blade asked quietly.

  “Why did you become a Warrior in the first place?” Rikki inquired, and then proceeded to answer his own query. “You became a Warrior because you felt the Spirit was guiding you to use your skills to protect our Family. Am I right?”

  Blade nodded.

  “You can’t stand the thought of any of our loved ones coming to harm, and you have devoted your life to insuring they can live in peace, free from the constant fear of being attacked, of being injured or killed. Am I right?”

  Rikki asked again.

  “I became a Warrior for the same reason you became a Warrior,” Blade said. “And the same reason Hickok, Geronimo, Yama, Spartacus, and all the rest became Warriors. The Spirit blessed us with certain unique talents, and we’ve decided to use our talents to protect the Family.”

  “True,” Rikki conceded, “but in your case I think it goes deeper than that.”

  “I don’t follow you,” Blade commented.

  “Don’t you?” Rikki studied Blade’s features. “Let me put it to you another way. Hickok, like ourselves, is a Warrior.”

  “One of the best the Family has,” Blade noted.

  “I concur,” Rikki said. “But
if one of our Family was killed by a scavenger or a mutate, how do you think Hickok would react?”

  Blade didn’t have to formulate a response; he automatically knew the answer. “Hickok would seek out the scavenger or mutate and blow it away.”

  “Precisely,” Rikki agreed. “And how do you think Hickok would feel about the departed Family member?”

  “He’d be upset about it, naturally,” Blade responded.

  “Naturally. But he wouldn’t dwell on the death. He wouldn’t blame himself for what had happened.”

  “So?”

  “So there is the difference between Hickok and you,” Rikki elaborated.

  “Hickok, and the rest of the Warriors, would accept the reality and inevitability of the death. All of us, Blade, die. Sooner or later, the Grim Reaper catches up with all of us. Our Elders have taught us to view death as the technique for passing on from this world to one of the mansions on high. Death is a step in our spiritual growth. All of us have accepted this fact, all of us except you.”

  “I know we all die,” Blade said testily.

  “But you don’t accept the act of dying,” Rikki remarked. “You blame yourself when others die, even if you can not prevent them from dying.”

  Rikki paused. “It isn’t the responsibility of leadership you fear. It’s the prospect of others dying because of your fallibility. You’ve always been hard on yourself when it came to making mistakes. You dread the fact others might die because of one of your mistakes. It’s not the responsibility,” Rikki reiterated, “not the mistake itself, but the dying you can’t tolerate.”

  Blade gazed at the ground, his brow furrowed as he contemplated Rikki’s words.

  “I may be taking a stab in the dark,” Rikki went on, “but I think it has something to do with your father.”

  Blade’s head snapped up. “My father?”

  “Your father was killed about four years ago by one of the Doktor’s monstrosities,” Rikki said. “This next may be too personal, and I apologize in advance if I’m overstepping my bounds, but I wonder if you’ve ever come to grips with your father’s death. I wonder if you blame yourself because you weren’t with him that day, because you weren’t there to stop that mountain lion from slaying your father. I wonder if the shock of your father’s death hurt you so much, affected you so profoundly, you can’t face the likelihood of other loved ones passing on. You don’t want to be caught in such a situation again. It’s ironic, isn’t it? You’re a Warrior, and you dispense death to anyone or anything threatening our Family. But you can’t accept the act of dying. You can dish it out, Blade, but you can’t take it.”