Boston Run Page 5

  "Don't expect a miracle," Doctor Milton said. "We have our work cut out for us before your memory returns."

  Berwin slumped onto the bed.

  "I do have some good news for you," Milton mentioned.

  "What?" Berwin responded, sounding totally disinterested.

  "Your parents brought some of your own clothes for you to wear. The clothes will be kept at the nurse's station overnight, and tomorrow morning you can put them on."

  "Thanks," Berwin mumbled.

  "Are you going to mope all night?"

  "Maybe."

  "A positive attitude does wonders for the disposition and promotes healing," Doctor Milton stated. "If you succumb to the doldrums, if you let the amnesia get the better of you, you'll delay your recovery."

  "I'll try to cheer up," Berwin said.

  "Hang in there," Doctor Milton advised, and walked into the corridor.

  He saw the others standing at the junction and he hurried to them, grinning triumphantly.

  "Did he fall for our act?" Trish asked.

  "Hook, line, and sinker," Milton told them.

  "Our superiors will be very pleased," the mother commented.

  "Let's not become overconfident," the father advised. "Don't forget who we're dealing with."

  "A few more days and we might have the information. Then we can end this charade," Milton said.

  "What will they do with him after they get the information?"

  Krittenbauer inquired.

  "What do you think?" Trish replied, and snickered.

  Doctor Milton glanced back at the giant's room. "I certainly wouldn't want to be in his shoes."

  Chapter Six

  He was crouched on a low, stout limb six feet above the narrow game trail, his leg and thigh muscles coiled to spring, a black machete held in each hand. His brown eyes locked on the ten-point buck approaching from the west and he froze.

  The buck paused and sniffed the cool morning air uncertainly, displaying the innate caution that had enabled the animal to reach full maturity in a land overrun with predators. It studied the sprawling maple tree directly ahead, then gazed at the small pond 20 feet beyond the tree.

  Thirst compelled it to move forward, its keen ears straining to detect the presence of flesh-eaters.

  Poised and ready, the man in the tree waited patiently, seemingly sculpted from stone. His black hair had been cropped into a crew cut. His eyebrows, nose, and lips were all thin, lending a hard, almost cruel aspect to his countenance. A short-sleeved brown khaki shirt, brown pants, and brown leather boots, all crafted to fit by the Family Weavers, covered his six-foot-tall frame. In addition to the matched machetes, he had a pair of SIG/SAUER P226's around his slim waist, one auto pistol in a flapped holster on each hip.

  A robin winged by overhead, and the buck paused to idly observe the bird.

  The man remained immobile.

  With a bob of its antlers the buck came on, ambling ever nearer to the pond. Many times the white-tailed deer had quenched its thirst at that drinking hole, and not once had danger been present.

  This day would be different.

  The man in the tree noted every step the buck took. He felt no particular pleasure at what he was about to do. Despite their characteristic wariness, deer seldom bothered to look up into the trees for a lurking threat because they were rarely attacked from above. So the routine kill he was about to make did not pose any challenge to his finely honed skills. It was a simple matter of slaying game to put meat on tables at the Home.

  Unaware of the man's proximity, the buck walked under the spreading limbs of the maple.

  In a fluid, graceful motion the man pounced, dropping from the limb and angling his descent to land on the ground next to the buck's right front shoulder. The machetes streaked through the air, unerringly on target.

  The white-tailed deer could do no more than snort in surprise as the human alighted beside it. Instantly it went to bound away, its four legs beginning to propel it upwards. But before the buck completed the leap, its right front leg was sliced off at the knee, causing it to stumble forward with blood gushing from the stump.

  With ambidextrous precision the man swung both machetes, cutting off the right rear leg and slashing open the buck's neck simultaneously. He straightened and stepped back, expressing no emotion as the dear toppled to the ground and kicked and thrashed on the grass. Crimson drops spattered in every direction. Wide-eyed in terror, the buck gradually weakened, its efforts feebler and feebler.

  The man in brown wiped his machetes clean on the grass, then reached up and slid them into the crisscrossed black canvas sheaths attached to his back. A black handle jutted above each shoulder, within easy grasp at a moment's notice. He folded his wiry arms and watched the buck's death throes. Only when he was satisfied that the animal had expired did he crouch and flip the deer onto its back.

  A pool of blood had formed underneath the buck.

  He wiped excess blood from the buck with his left hand, then proceeded to slowly lift the white-tail's front half. Squatting and twisting his torso, he managed to drape the heavy carcass on his back. Then, grunting from the exertion, he rose to his full height with the buck across his shoulders.

  In the surrounding forest life went on. Birds sang and insects droned.

  The man hiked southeastward, skirting the southern rim of the pond, his tread measured, his stride indicating he could walk for hours with his burden and not tire. The terrain being generally flat, he made good time.

  Within an hour he spotted the 20-foot-high brick walls enclosing the 30-acre survivalist retreat built over a century ago by the man who started the Family, Kurt Carpenter.

  Situated in northwestern Minnesota, on the outskirts of the former Lake Bronson State Park, the compound had been strategically positioned by the Founder to enable the Warriors on the ramparts to see anyone or anything approaching from all directions. As added insurance, the ground for 150 yards in every direction had been cleared of all trees, brush, and boulders. Consequently, the Warrior on the west wall spied the man in brown and gave a shout for the drawbridge in the center of the wall to be lowered.

  The man crossed the field, watching the drawbridge lower slowly. He glanced at the Warrior on duty on the rampart and recognized the tall, lanky figure and distinctive red Mohawk of Ares, the head of Omega Triad.

  "Hello, Marcus," Ares called down.

  "Hi," Marcus responded. He stepped onto the drawbridge and paused at the sight of the person awaiting him on the opposite bank of the inner moat. Mystified, he advanced until he was two yards from the man and halted. "Hickok," he said in greeting.

  The Family's preeminent gunfighter nodded, his thumbs looped in his gunbelt, his gaze roving over the buck. "Howdy, Marcus. Where'd you bag the deer?"

  "At that pond northwest of here," Marcus replied.

  "Isn't baggin' game a job for the Hunters?"

  Marcus studied the gunman for a moment. "Usually. But Blade has always permitted the Warriors to go after game when we're not on duty."

  "True, but you're supposed to let Blade know first."

  "Blade's not here," Marcus noted.

  "Which means I'm in charge," Hickok said. "Why didn't you let me know?"

  Marcus went to shrug, but the weight of the buck prevented him. "I didn't think you'd mind."

  The gunman stepped closer, smiled, and leaned forward, his nose an inch from Marcus's. " I mind, "he stated emphatically, then straightened.

  "I expect to be treated with the same respect you'd show Blade. When you're off duty, your time is your own. But if you want to go traipsin' off into the woods, you're supposed to let the head Warrior know. What if something had happened to you out there? We wouldn't have had the slightest idea where to search for your mangy hide."

  "Nothing would have happened," Marcus responded.

  "Oh? Are you an Empath, now, too?"

  "No—" Marcus began.

  "Are you invincible?"

  "No, but—" />
  "Do you have cow patties for brains?"

  Marcus opened his mouth to reply.

  "If you ever pull a stunt like this again, I'll have you up in front of a Review Board so fast you'll be dizzy," Hickok snapped, his tone low and hard. "Savvy?"

  "I understand," Marcus said, "but—"

  "There are no buts about it," Hickok declared. "And Blade will hear about this when he gets back."

  "Do we know where he is?" Marcus asked hopefully.

  "We have a good idea where he's at," Hickok disclosed. "The hybrids found a clue."

  "Are you going after him?"

  "Yep. Geronimo is comin' with me. We'll take the SEAL."

  "Are you sure the two of you will be enough?" Marcus asked.

  "Nope. I'm aimin' to take along one other Warrior," Hickok said, and grinned.

  "Who?" Marcus inquired, and suddenly, in a flash of insight, he understood why the gunman had been waiting for him. "Me?"

  "You," Hickok confirmed.

  "But why me?" Marcus blurted out, astounded by the unexpected development.

  "Why not?" Hickok rejoined.

  "I've never been on a run before," Marcus noted.

  "All the more reason you should go on this one," Hickok said. "You're one of the youngest Warriors. You're—what?— twenty-four?"

  Marcus nodded.

  "Well, no offense meant, but you're also one of the least experienced.

  Most of the other Warriors have been on missions away from the Home. I reckon it's about time you had a turn."

  "Ares hasn't been on a run yet," Marcus mentioned absently, excitement mounting inside him. Here was his chance to venture into the Outlands! Here was an opportunity to test the skills he'd so diligently honed! He realized Hickok had selected him for that very reason, to give him the combat experience he needed, and his respect for the gunman rose several degrees.

  "Omega Triad is on wall duty. Ares will be on duty for six more hours, and we're leavin' in thirty minutes. Geronimo is loadin' our gear and supplies into the SEAL right now," Hickok said.

  Marcus gazed at the compound, at the dozens of Family members engaged in various activities, at children playing and adults conversing and a Musician playing a guitar, and he suppressed an urge to shout for joy. "There are other Warriors who haven't been on runs," he noted, too thrilled to think of anything else to say.

  "Yeah, I know," Hickok replied. "Teucer, Samson, Spartacus, and the mutants ain't been on runs. They'll get their turn sooner or later." He paused and chuckled. "Actually, I was fixin' to take Yama. But Lynx spoke up and reminded me that there are Warriors who haven't gone out on the SEAL yet. He had a good point. I was up past midnight decidin' who to take." He beamed. "Lucky you."

  "Maybe Lynx was hoping you'd take him."

  "You could be right," Hickok said. "When I bumped into Lynx an hour ago and told him I'd picked you, he walked away muttering something about meatheads."

  "What all should I bring along?" Marcus asked.

  "Pack a couple of changes of clothes. Go to the armory and grab as much ammo as you can carry. And you'll need an automatic rifle or a machine gun."

  "I prefer my machetes."

  Hickok glanced at the machete handles protruding above Marcus's shoulders. "I've been meanin' to ask you. Why'd you choose those pigstickers as your favorite weapons, anyway?"

  "I know all about your interest in the American Old West," Marcus mentioned. "That's why you carry the Pythons, dress in buckskins, and talk weird."

  "Who the blazes claims I talk weird?" Hickok demanded.

  "Everybody."

  "Oh. Just so it's unanimous."

  Marcus grinned. "With your interest in the Old West, I know you can appreciate my interest in the ancient gladiators. I've read every book in our library on the customs of the Romans. I know all about the contests they staged in huge arenas, pitting the gladiators against other fighters or wild beasts."

  "Yeah. I know. I read about 'em in school," Hickok said. "But takin' on a hungry, slobberin' lion armed with just a dinky fishnet and an oversized fork seemed like a dumb way to make a living. I know Spartacus is partial to that era."

  "He is," Marcus stated. "And since he became a Warrior before I did, he had first dibs on the only broadsword the Founder stocked in our armory. The same with Ares. He took the only short sword. The Founder collected an extensive sword and knife collection, but he rarely included more than one of each type of sword. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi got the only katana."

  "Leavin' you with the machetes."

  "Exactly. Oh, there are a few different swords left, but I like the machetes the best. They're lightweight and razor sharp."

  "Give me a one-hundred-and-fifty-eight-grain hollow point over a flimsy piece of metal any day," the gunman quipped.

  "Who will be in charge of the Warriors while you're gone?"

  "Rikki will hold down the fort."

  "And who will fill in for me? My Triad will be one short," Marcus observed.

  "Don't worry. You're covered. I've already made the arrangements. The other Warriors will take turns filling in for you."

  Marcus stared at the field to the west of the compound. "I can hardly wait."

  "Then get your tail in gear. Pack your clothes, grab an automatic from the armory, and meet me at the SEAL in twenty minutes," Hickok directed.

  "On my way," Marcus said, and took a step. He paused and glanced at the gunman. "Wait a minute. You haven't told me where we're going."

  "Beantown."

  "Where?"

  "Didn't you pay attention in history class?"

  Marcus shook his head. "Except for the Greek and Roman periods, history bored me to tears."

  "I spent the past half hour in the library readin' up on the city we're headin' to. Beantown is another name for Boston, Massachusetts. The nickname has something to do with Boston baked beans, whatever the blazes they are."

  "Blade is in Boston?"

  "That's that we figure," Hickok said. He reached into his right front pocket. "The hybrids found this late yesterday afternoon. The Elders spent all night in a conference, and they voted to send a rescue team to Boston.

  Plato agreed with them."

  Marcus knit his brows in contemplation. If Plato, the wise Family Leader, believed the evidence warranted a trip to Boston, warranted traveling half the distance of the continental United States through the Outlands, then the clue the mutants found must be important and clear-cut.

  "Here it is," Hickok said, and held out his right hand.

  Marcus stared at the object in the gunman's palm for several seconds, perplexed. "That's it? A pack of matches?"

  "Read the matchbook cover."

  Marcus used his left hand to raise the matchbook to eye level so he could read the red lettering on the cover, part of which had been torn off.

  Several letters in the first word were missing.

  -ERS. SAM'S BAR. NOW AND FOREVER. BOSTON, MASS.

  "Why do you look as if you just swallowed a frog?" Hickok asked.

  Marcus wagged the matchbook. "This is the big clue? How do we know there's a connection between this and Blade?"

  "Several reasons. First, the matchbook is in tiptop shape, except for the teensy tear, which means it wasn't lyin' around exposed to the elements for very long. Second, the furballs and Gremlin found it on the trail they were following between the field where the helicopter landed and the spot where Blade was jumped. Third, there ain't too many folks from Boston waltzin' around the countryside."

  "So the Elders think that one of those who captured Blade must have dropped the matchbook?"

  "You're a regular Pinkerton detective."

  "A what?"

  "Never mind."

  "I take it that Boston wasn't hit by a nuclear weapon during the war?"

  Marcus inquired.

  "Not as far as we know. Boston is in Commie territory," Hickok said.

  "The Russians took Blade?"

  "Looks that way," Hickok answered hars
hly. "We have a score to settle with those vermin. So get packin'."

  Marcus nodded and hurried off.

  "Hold it," Hickok said.

  "What?" Marcus replied, halting in midstride to look back.

  "Aren't you forgettin' something?"

  "Like what?"

  Hickok pointed at the dead deer. "You'll look sort of silly waltzin'

  around the Home with a buck on your shoulders. You might want to ditch it before you start packin'."

  Marcus glanced at the deer and grinned sheepishly. "Damn, I was so excited, I almost forgot about it." He hastened off.

  The gunfighter waited until Marcus was beyond hearing range, then threw back his head and laughed. Terrific! he told himself. Just what he needed on the run. A wet-nosed whipper-snapper. He ought to have his head examined for deciding to take an inexperienced Warrior along. Even with the best of intentions, Marcus could well get them all killed.

  Chapter Seven

  Berwin was eating a late breakfast consisting of oatmeal and toast when Doctor Milton entered his room.

  "Good morning," the physician declared. "How are you feeling today?"

  "Better. I had a good night's sleep," Berwin replied. He took a bite of toast and chewed hungrily.

  "I left instructions for you to be allowed to sleep as late as you liked,"

  Milton said, coming to the edge of the bed. In his right hand he held a small notebook and a pen.

  "Thanks," Berwin said, and took a swallow of milk. "And thanks for letting me have the oatmeal. I was afraid I'd have to eat pea soup."

  "Pea soup is for lunch," Doctor Milton informed him.

  "I can hardly wait."

  Milton grinned. "Did you have any dreams last night?"

  "A few."

  "What about?"

  Berwin shrugged. "Nothing important."

  "You let me be the judge of that," the physician said.

  "Then Nurse Krittenbauer was right? My dreams are important?"

  "Extremely important," Doctor Milton verified. "I want you to tell me every detail you can remember."

  "Right this minute?"

  "Right now," Milton stated. "Leave nothing out, no matter how trifling you think it might be."