The Fox Run Read online

  Blade squinted, compensating for the glare of the bright sun. “Where…?” he began.

  “I see her,” Hickok confirmed. “Just to the south of the drawbridge.”

  Blade spotted her too. Her blonde hair was swaying in the breeze, and she waved at him.

  Blade returned her wave.

  “So when are you two binding?” Hickok asked.

  “When we’re damn good and ready,” Blade snapped.

  “Touchy.” Hickok grinned.

  “You know how he is about his personal affairs,” Geronimo said. “Why bait him?”

  “It’s just his nature,” Blade responded before Hickok could reply.

  “And it keeps you from getting a swelled head,” Hickok cracked. “Our future leader should maintain a firm grasp on humility, and not distort his importance out of all proportion.”

  Blade stopped. “What do you mean by that?”

  Hickok and Geronimo were still walking.

  “I said,” Blade emphasized, “just what the hell do you mean by that?”

  They halted and faced him.

  “I was just quoting Plato,” Hickok said. “No need to lose your temper, Red.”

  “You know what he meant,” Geronimo offered.

  “Do I?” Blade retorted.

  “Don’t play the naive innocent with us,” Hickok stated sharply.

  “Whether you like the idea or not, pard, the fact is that Plato wants you to become leader after he kicks.”

  “What if I don’t want the responsibility of leadership?” Blade countered.

  “Tough,” Hickok said.

  “Why must we go over this again and again?” Geronimo asked Blade.

  “Because I’m not sure I want to be leader,” Blade replied honestly.

  “Why not?” Hickok demanded. “Too good for us?”

  “Maybe I don’t want over six dozen lives dependent on decisions I would be required to make.”

  “The Family must have a leader,” Geronimo reminded Blade. “And you have the natural aptitude and ability a leader should have. It’s in your blood, Plato says. Your father had it.”

  “And look where it got him!” Blade rejoined.

  “Now is not the time and place for this.” Geronimo waved his left hand in the direction of the Home. More members of the Family were gathered for their homecoming.

  “Let’s go.” Blade glared at Hickok, who laughed, and led the way.

  The drawbridge was being lowered and a reception committee was forming on the other side of the moat.

  Blade scanned the rampart, but Jenny was gone. A moment later he saw her come into view on the drawbridge. She waved again and ran towards him.

  The horn blasted again.

  Blade glanced up at the lookout post on the northwest corner of the wall.

  Whoever had duty had already spotted them and sounded off, so why was he blowing the horn again?

  The lookout blew twice more, paused, then three more times.

  “Damn!” Hickok exclaimed.

  “Where?” Blade was turning, searching the horizon.

  “There!” Geronimo pointed.

  Three quick notes, a pause, then three more. It could only be one thing.

  Blade saw it, and his skin crawled.

  The cloud was creeping over the hill behind them, shrouding the forest in a peculiar greenish mist, traveling slowly, borne by the breeze.

  “Blade!” Jenny screamed, running faster.

  “Make for shelter,” Blade directed his friends.

  Hickok obeyed, running. Geronimo, fatigued from carrying the buck for two miles, started to shuffle off.

  “For God’s sake,” Blade yelled, “drop the carcass!”

  “But the food…” Geronimo started to protest.

  Blade grabbed the deer by a rear leg and yanked, toppling the buck to the ground. “You’re more important! Move!”

  Geronimo sprinted towards the Home.

  Blade looked back. The wind was picking up, it had shifted since the mutate incident, and was now coming from the west, bearing the cloud right down on them. It was coming fast, too fast!

  “Blade!”

  Jenny was by his side, gripping his right hand, squeezing hard. There was a hint of panic in her voice, in her wide green eyes. Her white blouse was heaving, her breathing labored, from her exertion.

  “Let’s go!”

  They fled.

  The cloud was at the border of the field, sweeping in. A faint hiss carried through the air.

  Jenny stumbled in a rut and fell on one knee, tearing a hole in her already faded and patched jeans, stifling a cry.

  Blade heaved her to her feet. “Hurry, honey!”

  How could the damn thing move so fast? No wonder the clouds had claimed so many lives over the years, including that of Kurt Carpenter.

  Blade and Jenny ran all out, breathing hard.

  They crossed the drawbridge and Blade spotted one of the Family striving to raise the massive mechanism by himself.

  “Leave it!” Blade ordered.

  “But…” the man protested, knowing his duty was to always insure the drawbridge was promptly closed after any opening.

  Blade recognized him. “It won’t keep the cloud out, Brian! Want your wife to become a widow? Move!”

  Brian fastened his brown eyes on the approaching cloud, nodded, and ran for shelter.

  The green cloud had consumed half of the field.

  Blade drew Jenny with him. Ahead, Hickok and Geronimo were entering the C Block. Smart choice.

  The hissing was louder.

  The compound was nearly deserted. The Family had taken shelter in the underground chambers. Those chambers were the last refuge in case of an attack by human, or inhuman, sources. Provisions were continually replenished. There were six concrete buildings within the brick walls, each one in reality a reinforced bunker. Below each building, called a Block after the customary military fashion, was a survival chamber. Access was gained via a hidden trap door, and every door was practically impregnable, consisting of alternating steel plates and insulation designed to filter any harmful particles, such as fallout, and reduce the penetration of ionizing radiation.

  Blade and Jenny reached the doorway to C Block. Blade saw the trap door, in the northeast corner, open and beckoning.

  Behind them, a woman shrieked in terror.

  Blade whirled.

  An infant, a toddler, was wobbling on unsteady little legs toward the drawbridge, towards the cloud, now only fifty yards from the Home.

  “Mark!” the woman, Nightingale, screamed.

  “Come back!” She was standing fifteen yards away, trembling, wanting to rescue her offspring but too petrified to make the attempt.

  The small boy was still moving in the direction of the cloud.

  Blade released Jenny and headed for Mark.

  “Blade!” Jenny called after him.

  “Stay there!”

  The green cloud was only forty yards from the drawbridge, wispy, vaporous tentacles probing ahead of the main mass, reaching, searching, seeking flesh. Inexplicably, the mysterious clouds left vegetation unaffected by their passage. Any humans or animals, however, were never seen again if consumed by a cloud.

  Blade knew the child was fascinated by the cloud, dazzled by a sight unlike any other the boy had ever seen. In a matter of moments, it would become the last sight the boy ever saw.

  The creeping menace was closing on the drawbridge.

  The boy had stopped just yards from the drawbridge, gaping.

  Blade was running full out, straining his leg muscles to their limit.

  “Mark!” the mother screamed again.

  Mark twisted, glancing over his right shoulder.

  The breeze slackened just a bit, and the cloud slowed.

  Mark smiled at his frantic mother and returned his wondering eyes to the cloud, marveling.

  Blade could feel his blood pounding in his temples, the toll on his leg muscles causing sharp pain in hi
s thighs. He had gone too long without adequate rest and proper nourishment.

  The cloud was almost at a standstill.

  The boy ambled onto the drawbridge.

  No! Blade lacked the energy to voice his warning. He concentrated on moving, on maintaining his speed. Speed was everything.

  The preternatural hissing filled the air, resembling the sound of a pan of frying turtle amplified a thousand times. The wind suddenly picked up and the cloud resumed its advance.

  Blade reached the boy. He scooped Mark into his arms and hugged him to his chest. For an instant he paused, riveted, watching the opaque cloud eat up the distance.

  “Blade!” he heard Jenny yell.

  Blade spun.

  “Mommy!” the boy shouted, beginning to cry, suddenly terrified.

  “We’ll make it!” Blade assured him.

  But would they? Blade could not afford a backward glance as he made for C Block. He saw Nightingale and Jenny were standing side by side near the doorway. Nightingale had apparently run to Jenny for comfort, for support. Jenny’s right arm was around Nightingale’s shoulders, their expressions ashen, their eyes wide. Mark was bawling, and Blade felt several warm tears spatter on his neck.

  The hissing crackled in his ears.

  To his right, out of the corner of his eye. Blade caught movement. He risked a quick look-see and his breathing increased.

  A finger thin green tentacle was coming at him. Thin, yes, but just one whiff and he was instantly dead.

  “Mommy!” Mark squealed.

  His attention still focused on the approaching tendril, Blade missed spotting a small hole in the ground in front of his churning feet.

  “Mommy!” the instinctively horrified child screeched.

  Blade hit the hole and went down.

  The tentacle was ten yards away, closing in, as if sensing warm blood.

  Blade jammed his left elbow trying to absorb the force of the fall and protect the infant. The boy’s knees dug into Blade’s stomach, and Blade’s vision whirled and danced, his midriff lanced with intense agony.

  Blade tried to rise, to keep moving, but he couldn’t seem to catch his breath and his limbs felt like mush.

  “Blade!” came from Jenny.

  Jenny. He wanted to go out thinking about her, his first and only love, sweethearts since they were ten. Jenny. His precious beloved.

  Strong arms abruptly gripped him by the armpits and hauled him to his feet.

  “You sure pick the damnedest times to take your naps, pard.”

  Hickok and Geronimo were literally carrying him, propelling him towards C Block.

  “Hold your breath,” Geronimo advised. “It’s too close!”

  Blade felt life returning to his legs and he pumped them, doing his best to keep up.

  “Mommy!”

  Nightingale came out to meet him, grabbing Mark, hastening for the doorway.

  Jenny waited for Blade and moved in, taking Hickok’s place, supporting her man. “Hang in there,” she encouraged him.

  They reached the trap door. Nightingale and Mark went down the steps first. Jenny followed. Hickok and Geronimo assisted Blade in descending to the underground chamber.

  “You ever consider going on a diet?” Hickok asked Blade.

  Blade was too tired to respond. He heard the trap door clang shut and knew they were, for the moment at least, safe.

  “Is he okay?” Jenny was asking.

  Blade tried to focus, but his vision spun, dizziness overcoming his mind.

  He wanted to thank them for saving him, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open and his mind alert.

  “Did he inhale the vapor?” someone was inquiring.

  That was all he remembered.

  Chapter Three

  The scene was shrouded in mist, the images clouded, but he could discern the mutate perched on a boulder ahead of him, crouched and prepared to spring. This monstrosity was once a mountain lion, now a deformed, demented demon.

  He wanted to scream! His legs were carrying him towards the mutate on a path that wound below the boulder on which the horror was perched, and try as he might, until sweat beaded his brow, he could not force his legs to stop. They seemed to be endowed with volition of their own. What was wrong with him? Did he want to suffer the same terrible fate as his father?

  The mutate growled and licked its lips.

  He shivered as an intense sensation of chilling numbness pervaded his soul. Again and again, over and over, he attempted to will his legs to stop, to turn and flee, but without any hint of success.

  The boulder was only feet away, the mutate pressed against the top of the rock as its hind legs searched for a firmer grip.

  Stop! He shouted at his legs, to no avail. Stop! Stop! Stop!

  He recalled the day a runner came and informed him that his father had been attacked while on a hunting foray. They hastened to the death scene, but arrived too late. His father had passed on only minutes before his arrival. Blood was still flowing from a gaping tear in his father’s throat, and the stomach area was torn to shreds, strips of ragged flesh splayed outward from the body. He knelt in the grass and held his father’s hand and felt tears streak his cheeks. His mother had died in childbirth, his birth. Now his father was killed, and loneliness filled his grieving heart.

  The two men on the expedition with his father blamed themselves for his death. One of them had stopped to remove a stone from his boot, and the other waited with him, the two idly engaged in conversation. His father was thirty yards ahead of them when the mutate charged from the brush, bearing him to the ground, clawing and ripping and snapping. The two men rushed to his father’s aid, too late. The mutate whirled at their approach, snarled, and bounded into the woods. Strangely, the two men swore that this mutate was different from any other they had ever seen.

  They claimed this particular mutate was wearing a leather collar. The men were honest and fearless, respected by everyone, but not one member of the Family really believed their story about the collar. A popular assumption was that the two men had mistaken a shadow under the mutate’s neck for a collar. Imagine! A collar on a mutate! The very idea was patently ridiculous.

  He glanced up at the mutate on the boulder, petrified, because this mutate was wearing a wide leather collar decorated with silver studs.

  No! It couldn’t be!

  The mutate roared and pounced!

  He screamed.

  “Blade!”

  He opened his eyes, his vision briefly blurry. A cold, clammy sweat caked to his skin.

  “Blade? Are you okay?” It was Jenny.

  Blade tried to respond, but his tongue felt swollen and awkward, his throat parched, and the room appeared to be spinning around and around.

  “Blade? Can you hear me?” Her tone conveyed her concern.

  Blade wanted to say yes, but couldn’t. He noticed his vision beginning to clear.

  “Permit me,” someone said, and a shadowy figure loomed over his face, obstructing the light from the nearby candle. “Blade, concentrate on my voice, on my directions. If you can hear and comprehend, nod once.”

  Blade recognized Plato’s voice. He nodded.

  “Thank the Spirit!” Jenny happily exclaimed.

  “Quiet!” Plato ordered her. “No distractions. Blade…” He placed his weathered, wrinkled right hand on Blade’s forehead. “Did you inhale any of the cloud? Any at all? Nod once for yes, twice for no.”

  Blade nodded twice. At least, he couldn’t recall doing so.

  “Good, Nathan and Geronimo agree with that assessment. A stray vapor possibly penetrated into your lungs, but not in sufficient quantity to cause your earthy demise. You must clear your respiratory system. Breathe deeply, in and out, in and out.”

  Blade’s vision was restored to normal, but his throat was still congested.

  He followed Plato’s suggestion, inhaling slowly and exhaling carefully, settling into a rhythm, sensation returning to his numbed senses and limbs.

&nb
sp; “Excellent!” Plato commented. “Continue until I instruct you to desist.”

  Blade complied, taking in his surroundings. He was lying on one of the dozen cots set up in the chamber below C Block. A score of candles provided the illumination. Fourteen of the Family had sought sanctuary in this chamber. The other Family members would be scattered under the other Blocks, each having run to the nearest shelter when the alarm was sounded. Supplies were stacked against the walls: food, clothing, medical necessities, weapons, and the other essentials the Family might require if confined to the chamber for any protracted period.

  Hickok and Geronimo were sitting on another cot, engaged in animated conversation.

  Jenny and Nightingale were comforting the still-distraught Mark.

  Plato was standing, staring down at Blade, his kindly blue eyes probing.

  Blade raised himself on his elbows. He noticed that his injured wrist had been cleaned and bandaged while he was unconscious. Jenny or Nightingale, or both? They were two of the four Family Healers.

  “Is your biological equilibrium restored?” Plato inquired.

  Blade’s throat felt better. “I feel fine,” he acknowledged.

  “Sit up then, but don’t push yourself,” Plato directed.

  Blade obeyed. The others were all watching him now, alert for any indication of remission. “Really, I’m okay,” he reiterated.

  “I certainly pray you are,” Plato said. “The Family has need of your particular skills.”

  “Why did you send Hickok and Geronimo after me?” Blade asked.

  Plato raised his arms and swept the survival chamber with his gaze.

  “Dearly beloved, attend me! We have a matter of grave import to discuss.”

  The others present clustered closer, forming a circle around their leader.

  “You make it sound so serious,” Jenny stated.

  “It is,” Plato responded. He stroked his gray beard. “I had planned to address the entire Family tonight after the evening meal. Events, however, preclude that possibility. I will share my misgivings with those present now, and later, while those selected prepare, will inform the rest of our loved ones. Time is crucial to the success of the project I’m about to detail. I might be presumptuous, but I believe in my heart that a majority will agree with my assessment of our situation and the proposed remedy.”