The Fox Run Page 6
Plato was surprised by Joshua’s observation. “It never occurred to me,” he admitted. Wasn’t it amazing how things right in front of your nose could escape your notice?
A sudden commotion commenced at the pit.
“We’ve hit something hard!” someone exclaimed.
So soon? Plato hurried to the edge and looked down. They had indeed reached the surface of the entrance ramp.
“What is this?” a Family member asked.
“It is an opening,” Plato answered. “You must completely uncover it. The dimensions should be approximately thirty feet by thirty feet. After it is clear of dirt, search for three iron rings encased in the concrete. In the interim, someone fetch as much stout rope as we can muster. We will require it when the rings are found.”
The digging continued at a faster clip. The rope was brought and piled near the hole.
Plato remained at the edge of the pit. He glanced around, noting Joshua had departed. Blade, Geronimo, and Hickok were also gone, probably still collecting their supplies for the journey. Plato gazed at the entranceway.
He speculated, again, on whether the thing would function after all this time. Had it been preserved in serviceable condition? If otherwise, it availed them naught. Top scientists, brilliant men and women, had erected this chamber. If it was humanly possible to accomplish the task, they would have succeeded.
“We’ve found one of the rings!” someone shouted. Others clustered around to catch a glimpse of the iron imbedded in the concrete wall.
The Family was visibly excited, the diggers renewing their strenuous efforts, the spectators goading them on.
“Here’s another one!”
The second ring had been discovered.
Plato studied the rings. The first was in the center of the northern rim of the wall, the second in the center of the eastern edge. That left only the ring in the western edge. The southern edge did not include a ring; it was the hinge by which the door would swing open.
The sun was still ninety minutes from the far horizon.
Plato gazed over the compound. The Omega Triad had closed the drawbridge after the Family emerged from the survival chambers, and they now manned the lookout positions on the wall. All three of them, despite an obvious temptation to watch the excavation, were scanning the surrounding countryside for possible enemies. Vigorous Warrior training eventually resulted in ingrained reflexes, in strict adherence to duty and discipline. Security was a paramount Family concern, and only the ablest members were designated as Warriors, as guardians of the Family welfare.
“Here’s the third one!” came the cry.
All three rings had been revealed, and the diggers hastened to completely uncover the opening.
Soon, Plato knew, it would be soon. They were about to ascertain if the Family had any hope for continued survival, or whether they were doomed to bleak extinction, a minuscule dot on the passing page of human history.
Plato felt his stomach muscles tighten.
Chapter Five
After his conversation with Plato, Blade located Geronimo and Hickok in the crowd and led them to Block A, the Family armory.
“Hickok, you’re our firearms specialist. Any suggestions on what we should take?” Blade asked.
The gunman surveyed the huge chamber, the walls lined with rack after rack of assorted weaponry, rifles and shotguns, pistols and revolvers.
Crates of ammunition were piled up to the roof. Kurt Carpenter had known his precious Family would become engaged in a desperate struggle for existence after the nuclear holocaust, and he had prudently recognized that their ability to defend themselves, to persevere in a world where survival of the fittest was the norm, would be predicated on the firepower they possessed. Unlike food and medicine and even clothing, weapons, if kept sheltered from the elements, would endure the test of time and last generation after generation. Carpenter had selected arms of every sort, stockpiled ammo, and provided the equipment for gun repair and cartridge reloading.
“There’s no telling what we’ll go up against,” Hickok said thoughtfully.
“And we can’t afford to come up short where it counts.” He walked over to a rack of automatics, the guns neatly arranged and freshly oiled and cleaned, although seldom used. Utilizing the automatics to hunt game would be a case of drastic overkill, and was frowned upon. There was a colossal collection of rifles and shotguns suitable for hunting and most other Family purposes. The automatics were reserved for special occasions.
“Let’s see,” Hickok studied the rack, running through the hardware.
“The AP-74, the FNC, the AR-180, the 27 A-1, the Uzi, and…” He reached for one of the guns. “Ahhh. Here it is. Should do nicely.”
“Which one did you pick?” Blade inquired, his view blocked by Hickok’s right shoulder.
Hickok swiveled, displaying his first choice. “This is a Commando Arms Carbine, fully automatic or semi-automatic capability, weight about eight pounds or so.” Hickok hefted the Carbine. “And about three feet in length. Uses 45-caliber ammo. This magazine holds ninety shots. A neat piece of firepower, if I do say so myself.” Hickok grinned, appreciating the weapon.
“Reminds me of one of those machine guns used back in what were called the Roaring Twenties,” Geronimo commented.
“A Thompson?” Hickok nodded. “Guess it does at that, pard, but we do have a Thompson reproduction around here, somewhere.” He began searching the racks.
“Who gets this Carbine?” Blade wanted to know. As if he had to ask.
Hickok tossed him the gun. “Three guesses. You’re the worst shot, so you should have the automatic. This way, if we’re attacked, just point it in the general direction of the attacker and press the trigger and keep it pulled.
You’re bound to hit something.”
Geronimo laughed.
“Thanks a lot,” Blade said to Hickok.
“Hey, pard, don’t blame yourself,” Hickok stated matter-of-factly. “We’ve each got special skills. I wouldn’t want to tangle with you one-on-one with knives, that’s for sure.”
“What about me?” Geronimo asked.
Hickok walked to another rack. “Way I figure it, we need to diversify our armament, try to accommodate as many possibilities as we can. We’ve got our automatic, so I think we should pick a shotgun next.”
“Why?” Geronimo questioned.
“For a combination of power and accuracy,” Hickok answered. “At close to medium range, a shotgun can tear apart anything that comes at you.
Here’s the one I want.” He picked one gun from the shotgun rack. “This is a Browning B-80 Automatic Shotgun. Twelve gauge, thirty-two inches long, about seven pounds. Easy to handle.”
“I haven’t used a shotgun too often,” Geronimo observed.
“Here, pard.” Hickok handed the Browning to Geronimo. “Don’t worry about it. You’re a good shot, and we’ll need the stopping power. We’ll use buckshot, double aught.”
“What’s that leave you?” Blade inquired, facing the rifle racks.
“You got it.” Hickok stepped in front of one case. “We’ll need a long gun for distance shooting.” He grabbed one of the rifles. “A Navy Arms Henry Carbine, 44-40 caliber. The accuracy you can achieve with this rifle is amazing. I prefer the lever action over a bolt job. Levers keep your fingers closer to the trigger, where they belong. This Henry is a reproduction of a gun that was used back in Wild Bill Hickok’s time.”
“I should have guessed,” Geronimo said.
Hickok ignored his friend. “Now to our handguns. I’ll stick with my Pythons. For you, Blade…” Hickok walked to one of a dozen cabinets containing the Family’s pistols and revolvers. He leaned his Henry against the wall and opened the cabinet. “This should do you just right.”
Blade recognized the style of gun. “Another
automatic?”
“One of us should carry one. Or two. I reckon you’ll be keeping those Bowies at your hips?”
Blade nodded his head.
Hickok sighed. “Never could understand what you see in those big knives. No problem, though. You can wear two of these in shoulder holsters.”
“What are they?” Blade took one of the handguns from Hickok.
“It’s a Vega 45 Automatic, and it’s a lot like the Colt Automatic.”
“I’m surprised you don’t recommend the Colt,” Geronimo said.
“I’ve got mine.” Hickok patted his Pythons. “And I don’t want to be accused of bias. Besides, the Vegas have never been used and we have plenty of ammo. Do you like the stainless steel and checkered walnut?”
“It’s a pretty gun,” Blade admitted.
“Pretty?” Hickok snorted. “Women are pretty! Guns are a work of art!
When I look at a fine firearm, it’s like I’m looking at a Michelangelo or a Van Gogh.”
“And you were the one who called Joshua strange?” Geronimo was grinning from ear to ear. “You don’t have room to talk.”
“You know what I mean,” Hickok retorted.
“Okay,” Blade interjected. “I’ll carry two of these Vega Automatics in shoulder holsters.”
“Leaving me,” Geronimo stated. “I’d prefer something a bit more basic.”
“Let’s see,” Hickok said slowly, studying the cabinets and racks. “We’ve already got stoppin’ power, and we’ve got the Vega for Tarzan, which means we need something combining accuracy with versatility. Ever use an Arminius?” he asked Geronimo.
“No.”
“Real basic, like you want.” Hickok selected the revolver he was referring to. “We have two models, one in .357 Magnum, the other a .38 Special.
How many handguns you plan on packing?”
“One.”
Hickok shook his head. “Up to you, but you’d be smarter to take two.
What if it malfunctions?”
“I’ll still have the Browning,” Geronimo said. “Besides, you’re taking two Colts and Blade is taking along two Vegas. Mine will make five handguns the Family might never see again. I know we have plenty of guns, but why take more than we’ll really need? I’m taking other weapons for close range, so just one Arminius will do for me.”
“The .38 or the .357?” Hickok asked.
“The .357 Magnum,” Geronimo responded.
“There’s still hope for you yet, red man.” Hickok smiled.
“Which is more than I can say for you, white boy,” Geronimo rejoined.
Hickok handed the .357 Arminius to Geronimo. “That’s it for me. Pick whatever other weapons you want to take.”
They separated, walking to different sections, each preferring weapons from their particular specialty.
Hickok stood in front of the cabinet containing the small handguns, the derringers and other palm guns. He studied the selection and finally picked two. First, to wear strapped to his right wrist, he withdrew a Mitchell’s Derringer, a two-shot gun only five inches in length. The Mitchell’s used .38-caliber ammunition. He also grabbed a handgun to strap to his left leg, about three inches above the ankle. This gun was a four-shot C.O.P. .357 Magnum, five and a half inches long, double-action, with four barrels constructed of stainless steel. This baby, he reflected, would blow away anything at close range. It made for a dandy surprise package.
Blade eyed the section of the north wall containing the edged weapons, the swords, knives, stilettos, shivs, and others. He would take the two Bowies, and for a backup he chose two daggers, a matched pair, with razor-sharp blades and silver handles. One would be sheathed on his left forearm, the other to his right calf. A folding Buck knife, placed in his right pants pocket, completed his personal arsenal.
Geronimo was standing in front of a rack marked “Miscellaneous,” filled with an incredible array of unusual and varied weaponry. Most of it was Oriental: an ancient naginata and the later yari, both spears, the former with a curved blade, the latter employing a straight cutting edge; a pair of ton-fa; a bo, or hardwood staff; six pair of nunchaku, each consisting of two lengths of wood connected by chain or cord; and several sai. The rack also contained a section labeled “Early North American,” and it was this part that arrested Geronimo’s attention. Several Indian spears were secured in slotted grooves in the wood supporting the rack. Under the spears, positioned with the blades facing one another, patterned after an original Apache design but actually made in the 1900s, hung a pair of matching tomahawks, the versatile light axe used by many of the North American Indians. They were the only tomahawks the Family owned, although they did possess dozens of axes and hatchets. Ordinarily, Geronimo employed a hatchet in his daily activities, but this expedition to the Twin Cities was a special occasion, calling for a suspension of his reluctance to use the tomahawks. They were special, one of the few physical ties to a culture long gone, a way of life and a people Geronimo admired and revered and a time in which he fervently wished he had lived.
Geronimo was the only Family member with any vestige of Indian heritage in his blood, and even that was minimal. His parents had died when he was quite young, before they could give him a brother or a sister.
Geronimo, so far as he knew, was the last of the Indians, a condition he seldom talked about but acutely felt. He considered himself something of an outcast, the last of a noble breed, and different from the rest of the Family. He harbored a profound sense of obligation to his unknown Indian ancestors, a duty he feared would remain unfulfilled. If he was the last Indian, and he was unable to find a suitable mate, then the line of the exalted red man would perish with his death. The prospect terrified him.
But if I am to die on this mission, he thought, then I will greet the Great Spirit bearing the trademark of my forefathers.
Geronimo removed the tomahawks and hefted the handles in his hands.
A perfect balance! He slipped the handles through his belt, one on each hip. He would carry the Arminius in a shoulder holster under his right arm.
“I’m ready,” Hickok announced from the doorway to the Cell Block.
Geronimo moved to join him, passing Blade. “Problems?” he asked.
Blade was staring at a case of knives, his chin resting on the knuckles of his left hand. “No, not really,” he answered. “I thought I had made up my mind about what I’m taking, but now I think I’ll add one more item.”
Geronimo saw the contents of the case. “Throwing knives?”
“You never know,” Blade observed. He opened the case and extracted a black sheath containing three quality Soligen throwing knives. “I can attach the sheath to my belt in the small of my back. Hickok says you can never have enough backup.”
“Wouldn’t it be ironic,” Geronimo realized, “if we take all this hardware, and we do encounter some people, and they turn out to be as friendly and spiritual as our brother Joshua?”
“Ironic, yes,” Blade agreed. “Realistic, no. If anyone else has survived, they’re existing on an animal level of existence. Thank the Founder for the Home! Where would we be without the security the walls provide, and how long would the Family have lasted without the provisions the Founder stored? We’d be living in caves and fighting the mutates with clubs.”
They were slowly walking towards Hickok.
“I wonder how they will react to us,” Geronimo mused, and Blade knew he was referring to any survivors of the Big Blast, living and foraging in a world devoid of luxury and scantily supplied with the basic necessities.
Hickok suddenly made a show of clearing his throat. “Why don’t Geronimo and I mosey on over to F Block and stock up on our victuals? You can catch up with us later, pard.”
Blade wondered what on earth he was talking about, and then Jenny appeared in the doorway.
“Howdy, ma’am,” Hickok said. “Nice day if it don’t rain.”
Jenny ignored him, her eyes locked on Blade.
“I’l
l see you in a bit,” Blade said to his friends.
“If you can’t find us,” Hickok cracked, “check the south forty. We might be roundin’ up some critters for brandin’.”
Geronimo took Hickok by the right arm and forcefully propelled him from the Block. He smiled and nodded at Jenny, then followed the gunman, wondering where Hickok’s own girlfriend was.
“We’re finally alone,” Jenny said, stating the obvious.
Blade nodded. There was a large oak table in his immediate left. He pivoted and placed the weapons he would take on top of the table.
“We need to talk,” Jenny said.
“I know.”
“If all goes well, I expect you’ll be leaving sometime tomorrow,” Jenny mentioned.
“I know,” he replied.
“And there is a good chance I might never see you again.” Her lovely green eyes were watering.
Blade couldn’t bring himself to respond.
“Oh, Blade!” She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. “I can’t stand the thought of losing you! I’ll die if something happens to you!”
“Nothing will happen,” he said confidently.
“You can’t be certain of that,” she said softly, beginning to sob.
A warm, moist tear streaked a path down Blade’s neck, followed by several more.
“It will be all right,” he assured her, hugging her to him, stroking her blonde hair with his right hand.
Jenny released her pent-up emotions, the tears flowing freely, crying on his broad shoulder.
Blade patiently waited for her outburst to pass. There wasn’t a thing he could say to ease her hurt. Worse, he felt the same way. He forced himself to remain calm, to conceal the grief. If he broke down, it would only compound her misery.
There was a commotion outside, voices raised excitedly, from the direction of the digging.
Jenny cried until her tear glands were dry, her eyes red and puffy, her nose running. Finally, her weeping ceased. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into his ear.
“For what?” he asked. Blade glanced around the chamber for any material she could use. Nothing appropriate. He gently pushed back until he was clear of her encircling arms and removed his shirt. “Use this.” He handed it to her.