Dakota Run Page 3

  “So much for practice today,” Shane mumbled.

  “Hickok was right.”

  “We could practice knife fighting,” Blade offered, patting his Bowie handles.

  Shane gazed at the Bowies in evident distaste. “Thanks, Blade, but I’ll pass. Think I’ll go talk to my folks.” He smiled and walked away.

  Blade surveyed the now empty clearing. “What is it?” he soliloquized aloud. “My breath?” He chuckled at his own joke, mentally debating whether he should requisition a firearm from the armory and get in some drill while the range was free.

  The firing range was a large clearing located in the southeastern corner of the Home, situated as far as possible from the areas normally utilized by the Family to insure greater safety for all concerned. Because the Family congregated its activities in the western half of the thirty-acre Home, reserving the eastern half for agricultural endeavors and natural embellishment, the possibility of a stray bullet striking someone, or of a child stumbling across the range while it was being used, was extremely remote.

  Blade stretched, contemplating the expanse of scenery in front of him, thankful the Founder of the Home, a wealthy filmmaker named Kurt Carpenter, had had the foresight to construct it with space to spare. The thirty acres were surrounded by the twenty-foot-high brick wall, and the wall was topped with barbed wire as an added security measure. A stream was diverted into the northwestern corner of the Home, serving as a moat at the base of the wall, another precaution against attack, and channeled out of the Home under the southeastern corner of the wall.

  What was that? Blade detected movement to his left and turned, spotting one of the Warriors on guard duty on top of the wall making his rounds along the rampart. After the successful Troll assault, the Warriors had increased the frequency of their patrols, vowing they would never fail the Family again.

  The Warriors. Blade sighed. As their chief, he would need to make his decision, his selections, soon. Plato and the Elders were awaiting his recommendations, his choice of the candidates for Warrior status. Four Warrior positions needed to be filled, one in an existing Triad and the other three for a brand new Triad. The Family Warriors were divided into four groups comprised of three Warriors apiece. Their code names were Alpha, Beta, Gamma, and Omega. Gamma required a replacement for a recent loss, and the Elders desired to add a new Triad, Zulu, as a guarantee that the Warrior ranks would be sufficient to adequately safeguard the Home.

  His reverie was interrupted by the sound of feet pounding on the ground. Someone was in a hurry, coming from the direction of the Blocks.

  Blade placed his hands on his Bowies.

  A tall man with short blond hair and brilliant blue eyes burst into the clearing. He wore buckskin pants and a brown shirt sewn together from discarded pillowcases. A long broadsword dangled from a leather belt at his waist.

  “Blade…” the man began, breathless, his brow sweating, indicating the distance he’d covered to convey his message.

  “Report, Spartacus,” Blade directed him.

  Spartacus was a member of Gamma Triad, and one of the most trustworthy Warriors in the Family. “We’ve received the signal,” he hastily explained. “Rikki, Teucer, and Yama are in position. Your orders?”

  Rikki, Teucer, and Yaraa constituted Beta Triad. “Follow me,” Blade ordered, and took off at a brisk run.

  So! The trap was set to be sprung! All he had to do was give the word.

  “You planning to take any of them alive?” Spartacus inquired.

  “That decision will be up to Rikki,” Blade replied.

  Spartacus grinned. “Then they’re dead meat!”

  “Better them than us,” Blade said.

  “You sound so grim,” Spartacus noted. “Lighten up. What can these bozos do to us anyway?”

  Blade glanced at Spartacus, realizing his companion was completely unaware of the gravity of the situation. “They could destroy the Home.”

  “Destroy the Home?” Spartacus responded skeptically. “They have that much power?”

  “They have that much power,” Blade assured him.

  The two Warriors ran in silence for a minute, passing fields of recently harvested crops. They reached a line of cabins centered in the middle of the Home, located between the eastern, agricultural half and the western, occupied section. The cabins were the homes for married couples and their families.

  “I still say,” Spartacus stubbornly persisted, waving to a nearby couple as he went by them, “Rikki will slice them up into little pieces.”

  “Let’s pray to the Spirit you’re right,” was all that Blade would say.

  Spartacus hadn’t been with Alpha Triad on its previous runs; he just didn’t know what their enemies were capable of. Well, he was about to find out.

  Chapter Three

  “We’re gaining on them!” Cynthia happily yelled over her right shoulder, her black hair flying behind her as the paint galloped up yet another hill.

  Geronimo, keeping the big black right on her heels, looked over his left shoulder to verify her assessment. She was correct; they were putting more distance between the Legion patrol and themselves. With one notable exception. The majority of the patrol was three-fourths of a mile to their rear, but a single rider, a man on a golden Palomino, was considerably closer, perhaps five hundred yards away and not losing any ground.

  “We’re not gaining on him,” Geronimo shouted, nodding his head in the direction of the Palomino rider.

  Cynthia smiled. “He’s the one I told you about,” she called out, “the captain. I think he’s warm for my form!”

  Geronimo grinned. What kind of woman was this Cynthia that she could make jokes at a time like this?

  They were rapidly approaching the crest of the hill, a barren jumble of large boulders obscuring their view of the other side.

  If we can get beyond those boulders, Geronimo told himself, we can cut to the right and swing around in a circle. They might be able to shake the Legion patrol.

  Cynthia entered the rocks first, expertly dodging her mount between the boulders, its hooves clattering on the stone underneath.

  Geronimo gamely followed her, cautiously swerving and weaving the black, amazed at the consummate ease with which his steed negotiated the often narrow passageways.

  A stretch of green was visible ahead.

  Cynthia emerged from the boulder first, the paint darting into the open and beginning to pour on the speed again, when it abruptly tried to stop, its hind legs digging into the turf as it slewed sideways, terror stricken by the sight in front of it.

  Geronimo barely avoided a collision, jerking on the black’s reins and twisting the horse to one side, wondering what in the world had startled Cynthia’s mount, fearing that some of the Legion patrol might have been able to get ahead of them and cut off their escape.

  The paint whinnied in abject fear and scrambled to regain its footing, Cynthia clinging to the reins and the mane, striving to stay on, her slim legs clasping the animal’s heaving sides.

  Geronimo, concentrating on Cynthia’s predicament, neglected to see the thing in front of them until it was almost upon them. He heard a thunderous bellow and whirled, momentarily shocked by his discovery.

  It couldn’t be!

  Not now!

  But it was.

  A mutate.

  The dreaded scourge of the post-nuclear age, mutates overran the land.

  No one knew what caused them, whether it was attributable to the long-term effects of intense radiation or the consequence of the widespread use of chemical agents during the war. Plato once speculated they might be the result of a combination of the two. Whatever, the Family did know mutates were former mammals, reptiles, or amphibians converted by a mysterious process into rampaging, insatiable demons.

  The creature’s skin would become dry and cracked, turning a brownish color, and it would be covered with large blistering sores, oozing pus everywhere. Green mucus would pour from the ears, and its teeth would tur
n yellow and rot away. Mutates displayed one primary purpose in life; to kill anyone and anything in their paths, to rend and destroy, to consume every living thing they encountered, even one another.

  This one, Geronimo knew, had once been a bison. Its hair was gone, replaced by the pus-covered skin. Even its shaggy mane and beard had disappeared. The buffalo stood six feet high at the shoulder and weighed in the neighborhood of fifteen hundred pounds. Its horns were still attached, and they were aimed at the paint as it snorted and charged.

  “Cynthia!” Geronimo shouted, reaching for his rifle, knowing he would be unable to prevent the mutate from reaching her before he could fire.

  The paint managed to surge upright an instant before the mutate slammed into it, the horns ripping into the side of the horse and tearing it open, blood and guts spilling from the cavity. The paint started to go down as the mutate braced for another onslaught.

  “Cynthia!” Geronimo had the Marlin to his shoulder.

  Cynthia released the reins and pushed herself free of the plunging horse, rolling as she struck the ground. She rose to her hands and knees, keeping her eyes on the mutate.

  It was well she did.

  The mutate turned, forgetting the paint, focusing on this new target, pawing the grass as it prepared to attack.

  Only a second to spare!

  Geronimo hurriedly sighted and pulled the trigger, rushing his shot, unwilling to permit the monstrosity to get any closer to Cynthia.

  The 45-70 boomed, the slug smashing into the mutate above its right eye and exiting below its left nostril, the bison’s face erupting in a geyser of discolored flesh, blood, and pus. Enraged by the pain, the buffalo spun and launched its massive bulk at the floundering paint, the keen horns gouging a ghastly gash in the paint’s flank. The horse was bowled over by the tremendous force of the blow.

  Geronimo levered another round into the chamber and aimed for another head shot, confident he would kill the freak this time.

  He didn’t count on two things.

  First, the big black reared, reacting to the proximity of the deformed bison.

  Secondly, Cynthia rose and ran, managing to cover five yards before her right foot caught in an unseen hole and she stumbled and fell flat on her stomach. The mutate detected the motion and faced her, ignoring the thrashing paint.

  Geronimo frantically attempted to bring the big black under control, his left hand clutching the reins while he gripped the Marlin with his right. The black landed on all fours, still skittish, shying away from the former buffalo.

  Cynthia tried to stand, agony lanching her right ankle. She saw the mutate lower its head and charge, and she involuntarily screamed and extended her arms in front of her in a vain endeavor to avert imminent death.

  No!

  Geronimo held the rifle in his right hand, the barrel pointed in the general direction of the mutate’s stomach as the black bucked, and fired, the recoil almost wrenching the 45-70 from his grasp.

  Seared by the slug as it tore through its innards, the bison staggered, recovered, and turned, catching sight of the black for the first time.

  Geronimo released the reins as the mutate came directly at him. He raised the Marlin, hoping the pressure of his knees against the black would suffice to prevent him from falling, and levered his third round into the rifle.

  The mutate bellowed as it advanced, its bloody horns glistening in the sunlight.

  Eat this, sucker!

  Geronimo let the bison have it again, right between the eyes. Without hesitating, he ejected the spent shell and replaced it with his fourth and final shot.

  The mutate had slowed and was shaking its head, disoriented, a gaping hole in its forehead.

  Once more for good luck!

  Geronimo carefully aimed and fired, the fourth slug penetrating the bison an inch from the third.

  This one finally did the job. The mutate quivered violently, threw its head back, seemed to gasp for air, and then collapsed. Its body shook twice before sagging into an inert heap.

  Geronimo slid from the black and ran to Cynthia. “Are you all right?” he asked as he knelt by her side.

  “No,” she replied, rubbing her injured ankle.

  “Is it broken?” he solicitously inquired.

  “The ankle? It’s okay. Sprained a bit, I think.”

  “But you said…” Geronimo began.

  “Did you hear me?” Cynthia demanded in a disgusted tone. “I wimped out! I screamed! Did you hear me?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “I did it earlier too.” She frowned and shook her head. “When the Legion men were after me. Funny. I never thought of myself as a coward.”

  “You’re not a…”

  “Well, I can tell you one thing,” she promised him. “I’m not going to turn chicken again.”

  “You’re not a…”

  “Yes, sir,” she went on, oblivious to his attempts to respond. “You’ll never hear me scream again.”

  “You can’t blame yourself,” Geronimo said, about to elaborate when Cynthia’s eyes suddenly widened and she gaped in dread at something over his right shoulder.

  She screamed.

  Had the bison revived? Geronimo tossed the empty Marlin aside and whirled, going for the Arminius under his right arm. He saw the deceased mutate, the prone, quavering paint, and the nearby black.

  What…?

  Something chittered, something at ground level, and Geronimo glanced down.

  A mutated prairie dog was perched on the rim of the hole Cynthia had tripped in.

  Even as he spied the rodent, it launched its sixteen-inch body toward them. In sheer reflex, Geronimo snapped off a shot, surprised when it struck the prairie dog in the head and toppled it head over heels to the grass.

  “Nice shot,” Cynthia commented, her composure regained.

  “Just don’t ask me to do it again,” Geronimo said, watching the rodent for any signs of life.

  “I may have to,” Cynthia remarked, an edge to her voice.

  “What? Why?” Geronimo looked at her, puzzled by her tone.

  “Didn’t you know?” Cynthia asked. “Prairie dogs live in colonies. Look!” She raised her left hand and pointed.

  Another mutated rodent was just emerging from a burrow twelve feet away.

  Geronimo shot it in the head.

  “There’s another!” Cynthia squealed, pushing to her feet.

  He sighted and fired, downing it with four feet to spare.

  “We better get out of here,” Cynthia suggested, limping toward the black.

  “Look out!” Geronimo shoved her aside and shot another prairie dog emerging only inches from her feet.

  The black was moving away from them, its ears laid back, spooked by the gunfire and the activity.

  “We can’t let him get away!” Cynthia cried.

  Geronimo paused, wondering if he should reload the Arminius. He had two shots left in the cylinder. What if more prairie dogs appeared? His mind drifted, recalling his schooling days at the Home and his studies of the mammals of North America. He remembered learning they were part of the squirrel family. The lived in towns or colonies and were highly gregarious. But it didn’t make any sense! If all the prairie dogs in this particular town were mutated, they should be attacking one another in a feeding frenzy. These seemed to be working in concert.

  Impossible.

  “Geronimo!” Cynthia yelled in alarm, shattering his recollections.

  Three prairie dogs were issuing forth from three different burrows, all within twenty feet of the Warrior and his frightened friend.

  “Kill them!” Cynthia urged, backing toward him.

  He tried his best.

  The first shot took out the nearest rodent. His second blast caught a mutated dog as it leaped at Cynthia, saliva dripping from its open mouth, pus covering its putrid form.

  That left one prairie dog… and the Arminius was empty.

  Geronimo dropped the Magnum and whipped his tomahawk from u
nder his leather belt. He would only have one chance! If he missed, if the mutate punctured their skin and some of the pus entered their bloodstream, they wouldn’t live longer than a few days.

  The prairie dog was ten feet away and closing, its normally placid features transformed by feral lust.

  Geronimo raised the tomahawk, gauging the distance, waiting for the instant the prairie dog would jump. While in midair the rodent would be unable to change direction, to duck or dodge the tomahawk. It would be his best bet, a fleeting twinkling of vulnerability.

  The prairie dog screeched and launched itself into the air, but instead of arrowing toward Geronimo it zeroed in on Cynthia.

  Geronimo swung the tomahawk, slightly off balance, the edge of the weapon slicing into the mutate’s left side. The blow deflected the prairie dog, but it didn’t stop the horrific deviate.

  The rodent caught Cynthia on her right foot as it descended, its razor-sharp incisors lacerating an inch of skin near her big toe. She was wearing sandals, and the straps were composed of thin, durable strips of deer hide.

  The mutate landed and twirled, about to pounce again.

  Geronimo buried his tomahawk in the mutate’s cranium, the skull splitting like a rotten cantaloupe.

  Cynthia had collapsed on the ground and was staring at her injured foot in utter amazement.

  Geronimo wrenched the tomahawk free and knelt beside her.

  “I’m dead,” Cynthia said, shocked. “I’m as good as dead!”

  “Maybe not.” Geronimo leaned over the foot and examined the wound.

  “Maybe none of the pus got into your blood.”

  “The way my luck has been running today,” Cynthia remarked, “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “There don’t seem to be any more prairie dogs,” Geronimo commented, glancing at the nearest visible burrows. “Maybe your luck has changed.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” interjected a husky male voice.

  Geronimo and Cynthia turned as one, registering their astonishment as they suddenly realized they were completely surrounded by a circle of horsemen quietly sitting on their mounts twenty-five yards away.

  One of the riders, a handsome man in buckskins on a golden Palomino, was only ten yards off, a Winchester 94 Lever Action Carbine cradled in his big hands and pointed at the hapless duo.