Liberty Run

Chapter One

Three women emerged from the compound.

“Look!” exclaimed the stockiest of the five soldiers hidden in the forest to the west.

“I see,” said the leader of the quintet, a lean lieutenant with angular facial features. His brown eyes narrowed.

“Do we take them, Lieutenant Lysenko?” asked the third of the five men. Each of them wore a brown uniform; each of them was a seasoned professional; each carried an AK-47.

Lieutenant Lysenko nodded.

“It is big, is it not?” commented another soldier, a handsome, youthful trooper wearing his helmet cocked at an angle.

Lieutenant Lysenko, keeping his attention fixed on the trio of women 150 yards away, nodded. “The Home embraces a thirty-acre plot,” he noted absently.

“The Home!” The stocky soldier snickered. “What a stupid name!”

“I don’t know about that,” Lieutenant Lysenko remarked. “I sort of like it. The man responsible for constructing that walled compound knew what he was doing. His name was Kurt Carpenter, according to the files our informant turned over to us. Carpenter was no fool. He foresaw the inevitability of World War Three and took appropriate action. For an American, he was most unusual. Not at all like the typical capitalistic swine of his time. He used his wealth to build this place he called the Home, then gathered a select group here shortly before the war. He dubbed them his Family.”

“The Home! The Family!” the stocky soldier said, his tone laced with scorn. “I still think it’s stupid!”

Lieutenant Lysenko cast a disapproving glance at the trooper. “Were your feeble intellect the equal of your flippant mouth, Grozny, the Party Congress would hail you as a genius,” he stated acidly.

Private Grozny frowned, but held his tongue. He knew better than to match wits with the cerebral Lysenko. He also knew what would happen if he riled the officer.

The approaching women were 125 yards off.

“Was it stupid of Kurt Carpenter to surround his compound with twenty-foot-high brick walls?” Lieutenant Lysenko demanded. “And to cap those thick walls with barbed wire? Or to install a sturdy, massive drawbridge in the center of the west wall as the only means of entering or exiting to minimize hostile penetration? Was it stupid of him to initiate the practice of designating certain Family members as Warriors, superbly trained individuals responsible for preserving the Home and safeguarding the Family?”

“No,” Grozny admitted.

“It was very smart of them to clear the fields all around their Home,” interjected the youngest soldier.

“True,” Lysenko said. “Our task is that much more difficult.”

Grozny nodded at the women. “The mice come to the cats, eh?”

Lieutenant Lysenko studied one of the women. “But one of the mice sports fangs,” he observed.

One of the women was armed. She was a tall blonde with prominent cheekbones, thin lips, and an intent expression. A brown shirt and green pants, both patched in several spots, covered her athletic form. Moccasins adorned her small feet.

“What kind of guns are those?” asked the youthful trooper.

“I don’t know,” Lysenko acknowledged.

“They arm their women?” Grozny inquired.

“What is so surprising about that?” Lieutenant Lysenko countered. “We have female soldiers in our army.”

“Do you think the blonde is a Warrior?” queried the young soldier.

Lieutenant Lysenko scratched his chin, reflecting. He had not considered the possibility of the woman being a Warrior, and he mentally chided himself for his neglect. An officer could not afford to overlook any eventuality. The mission’s success and the lives of his squad depended on his perception and judgment.

“Orders?” Grozny questioned him.

The five soldiers were concealed behind trees and brush a few yards from the edge of the forest, from the end of the field.

“Move back,” Lysenko instructed them. “You know the drill. And remember. General Malenkov wants a live prisoner. We will take the blonde.”

“And the other two?” Grozny mentioned.

“Kill them,” Lysenko directed.

The quintet melted into the foliage, Grozny and the young trooper drawing their bayonets as they blended into the bushes.

The unsuspecting women neared the tree line, the blonde in the lead.

Her alert green eyes scanned the forest, probing for mutates, mutants, raiding scavengers, or any other menace. She detected a slight movement deep in the trees and stopped.

“Is something wrong?” asked one of the women behind her, a brunette wearing a faded yellow blouse and tan pants.

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” quipped the third woman. She was exceptionally slim and wore a blue shirt and pants, both garments having been constructed for her by the Family Weavers. “Sherry’s a Warrior.”

“What’s that have to do with anything?” inquired the brunette.

The third woman ran her right hand through her black hair. “Warriors are walking bundles of nerves,” she said. “They have to be, in their line of work. She probably heard a twig snap, and can’t decide if it’s a bunny rabbit or a monster!”

“Quiet,” Sherry declared.

“Give me a…” the black-haired woman started to speak, but the brunette gripped her right arm and motioned for silence.

Sherry raised her M.A.C. 10, listening. All she could hear was the breeze rustling the leaves of the trees, an unusually warm breeze for an October day. The leaves were red and yellow and orange, resplendent in their fall colors. She couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but her intuition was nagging at her mind, and over the years she’d learned to rely on her feminine intuition. It was seldom wrong.

“Should we return to the Home?” whispered the brunette.

Sherry bit her lower lip and glanced over her right shoulder at the Home. Blade’s orders had been specific: escort a pair of novice Healers into the forest and guard them while they searched for wild herbs. The assignment was far from critical. But how would Blade react when he learned she’d aborted the search because of a vague troubling premonition? She decided to proceed, but cautiously. “We’ll keep going,” she informed the pair behind her. “But stick close to me. Don’t wander off.”

The brunette nodded.

The third woman rolled her brown eyes skyward.

Sherry advanced toward the woods. She could feel the comforting pressure of her Smith and Wesson .357 Combat Magnum in its holster on her right hip.

Somewhere in the depths of the northwestern Minnesota forest a bird chirped.

Sherry paused when she reached the end of the field, peering between the trunks of the trees and into the shadows of the pines.

“Let’s get this over with,” said the black-haired woman. Like the brunette, she was 20 years of age. Unlike the brunette, she had applied to become a Healer at her mother’s insistence and not due to any innate sense of altruism.

Sherry stared at the impatient neophyte. “When I tell you to be quiet,” she informed her, “you’ll shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you. Understand?”

The black-haired woman bristled. “Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?”

“As you pointed out,” Sherry said, “I’m a Warrior, Claudia. And as such, in times of danger, what I say goes.”

“Danger?” Claudia scoffed. “What danger? Are we going to be molested by a moth?”

“Claudia!” the brunette spoke up. “Sherry is right, and you know it.”

“Nobody tells me what to do, Jean!” Claudia snapped. Before Sherry or Jean could intervene, she angrily stomped into the forest.

Jean stepped up to Sherry. “Don’t take her outburst personally. Claudia is upset because she knows she won’t be accepted as a Healer. Our apprenticeship, our probationary period, is over in a week. And there’s no way Claudia will be certified.”

Sherry watched Claudia disappear behind a broad pine tree. “Why did the Elders even accept her as a trainee? She’s too damn immature to be a Healer.”

Jean shrugged. “You know the Elders. They probably wanted her to at least have a chance at it.”

“And her mother is real close to Kant, and Kant was the Elder who recommended Claudia for Healer status,” Sherry stated.

Jean seemed shocked by the implication. “The Elders would never allow anyone to unduly influence their judgment.”

Sherry started walking into the woods. “The Elders aren’t infallible,” she said over her left shoulder.

Jean stayed on Sherry’s heels. “If you’d been born in the Family, you’d never make such an accusation.”

Sherry’s lips tightened. True, she’d been born and raised in Canada, in a small town called Sundown located across the border from Minnesota.

True too was the fact her nomination and acceptance as a Warrior could be attributed to the influence exerted by her husband, the Family’s preeminent gunfighter, the Warrior known as Hickok. Perhaps, if she had been reared in the close-knit Family, she wouldn’t presume to question an Elder’s integrity. Jean’s mild rebuke stung her, and for a few moments she was distracted, weighing the validity of the reproof instead of concentrating on the vegetation around them, on their immediate situation.

The mistake cost her.

“Where did Claudia go?” Jean asked.

The query brought Sherry out of herself. She searched the landscape ahead. “Claudia! Where are you?” she called out.

Claudia didn’t answer.

“Knowing Claudia’s temper the way I do,” Jean mentioned, “she might just ignore you.”

“She does,” Sherry said, “and she’ll live to regret it.”

“Claudia!” Jean shouted. “Come back here!”

Sherry moved past a large pine, then up a low incline. She reached the top of the mound and glanced down. And froze.

Claudia was lying on her back at the base of the grassy mound. Her throat was slit, and blood was gushing from her neck and flowing down the front of her blue shirt and spilling over her shoulders. Her wide, lifeless eyes gaped at the azure sky.

Jean bumped into Sherry, then spotted the corpse. “Dear Spirit!” she exclaimed, horrified. “Claudia!”

Sherry twisted and shoved Jean from the mound. “Run!” she ordered.

“Head for the Home!”

Jean hesitated, too stunned by Claudia’s death to realize her own danger.

But Sherry knew. Her intuition had been right! Some menace was lurking in the woods! And whoever had slain Claudia had to be nearby, ready to pounce again! She crouched, cradling the M.A.C. 10.

Not a moment too soon.

A soldier in a brown uniform burst from the brush seven yards to her right.

In the instant Sherry spied him, she recognized the uniform as belonging to a Russian trooper, and knew the gun in his hand was an AK-47. Hickok had told her all about his experiences in the Capital, when he’d been captured by the Russians. Her mind processed the information in the split second it took her to react, and her finger squeezed the trigger when the Russian was still six yards off.

The Soviet soldier was stopped in midstride as the slugs tore through his chest. His ears never heard the metallic chattering of the M.A.C. 10, because he was dead before the sound could reach them. He toppled to the hard ground without uttering a word.

Sherry swiveled, knowing there would be more, and there was another one, coming at her from her left, holding the barrel of his AK-47 as if it were a club, his legs pounding up the mound, and she fired when he was only two feet from her. The M.A.C. 10 caught him in the face, and he was flipped backwards by the impact, sprawling onto his back and sliding to a halt against a tree.

Jean!

Sherry spun, hoping the Russians hadn’t gone after the aspiring Healer, but she was too late.

A stocky soldier had grabbed Jean from the rear. His left arm was clamped around her neck, while his right plunged a bayonet into her body again and again and again.

Sherry was about to let him have it in the head, when she heard the padding of rushing feet behind her. She whirled, but before she could complete the turn someone plowed into her and bore her to the earth.

Strong arms gripped her wrists, preventing her from using the M.A.C. 10.

She glimpsed a youthful face above her, and then something was pressed over her nose and mouth, something soft with a slight odor. Sherry heaved and strained, attempting to buck her captor, but another set of hands grabbed her shoulders and held her fast.

“We have her!” someone exulted.

Sherry’s senses were swimming. She tried to focus, to use the martial fighting skills taught to her by Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, but her sluggish mind refused to obey her mental commands. Gasping, she made one last valiant effort to rise, then lost consciousness.

“We have her!” Grozny repeated, still holding her shoulders.

The young trooper, straddling her waist, nodded.

Lieutenant Lysenko, crouched to her right, removed the chloroform-soaked white cloth from her face and stood. “We must leave right away!”

“What’s the hurry?” Grozny asked. “Shouldn’t we bury our comrades first?”

“Fool!” Lysenko barked. “Do you want to end up like them?” He pointed to the two dead men. “The Family will have heard the shooting in the Home! They will send their Warriors after us!” He paused and gazed at the unconsious blonde. “She is quite formidable. If the other Warriors are half as good as her, we are in trouble! Come! Grozny, you carry her. Serov, you take the lead. We must reach the rendezvous point and signal for the copter to come and pick us up.”

Serov grabbed his AK-47 from the ground where it had fallen, then hurried to the southeast.

Grozny grunted as he draped the blonde’s body over his left shoulder.

He retrieved his AK-47, clutching it in his right hand.

“Go!” Lysenko directed. “I will cover you.” He picked up his AK-47 and waited while Grozny hastened into the trees. So far, so good. They had the live captive General Malenkov wanted. Leaving the dead men behind was regrettable, but it could not be helped. The Family would learn who was responsible for taking one of their vaunted Warriors, but what could they do about it? Nothing. According to the files relayed by the spy in Denver, the family only numbered about seven dozen members. Only 15 of them were Warriors. And 15 fighters, no matter how adept at their craft they might be, could hardly hope to oppose the military might of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

Loud voices arose from the direction of the Home.

Lysenko followed his men, constantly surveying the foliage behind him, alert for any hint of pursuit. He thought of the reception awaiting him in Washington, and he was pleased. This mission would definitely boost his career, perhaps lead to a speedy promotion. Maybe an assignment on General Malenkov’s personal staff. The prospect was exciting. General Malenkov was a man of considerable stature in the North American Central Committee, responsible for administering the occupational forces in America. The Soviets had been fortunate during the war; they’d been able to invade and hold a sizeable segment of the eastern U.S. New England, a portion of New York, southern Pennsylvania, Maryland, New Jersey, southern Ohio, southern Indiana, parts of Illinois, Kentucky, Virginia, and West Virginia, as well as sections of North and South Carolina were all under Soviet hegemony. The Soviets had intended to conquer the entire country, but their drive through Alaska and Canada had been stopped. And their push into the deep South had been resisted every step of the way, and eventually halted, by the determined Southerners.

Now, over a century since World War III, the status of the Soviet occupation was still the same. Slightly over 30 years ago, the Russians in America had lost contact with their Motherland. Ships sent to investigate the reason had never returned. Planes had vanished. Communications had gone unanswered. To maintain their military rule, the American-based Soviets had instituted a program of forcibly impregnating selected American women, then training and educating their children, indoctrinating them, creating devoted Communists every bit as loyal as any ever born on Russian soil.

In other areas, the Russians had encountered severe problems. Much of American’s industrial might had been crippled during the war, and the Soviets suffered shortages in everything from food to military hardware.

Their expansion plans to the west had been thwarted by the Civilized Zone Army. During the war, after a neutron bomb was dropped on Washington, what was left of the United States Government had withdrawn to Denver, Colorado, and reorganized under the direction of a man named Samuel Hyde, the Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare. Hyde had implemented Executive Order 11490, a law few Americans had ever known existed, enabling him to assume dictatorial control of the area under his domination, the area subsequently dubbed the Civilized Zone. Hyde’s bloodline had ruled the Civilized Zone for a century.

Then the incredible had happened. The tiny Family had defeated the last of the dictators and his cohort, the infamous scientist known as the Doktor, and precious freedom had been restored to the people of the Civilized Zone. According to the files Lysenko had read, the Family had been aided in their epic struggle by several factions. One was an army of superb horsemen from South Dakota called the Cavalry. Another contingent of fighters had come from the subterranean city designated the Mound, located many miles east of the Home. Refugees from the ravaged Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, calling themselves the Clan, had abetted the Warriors, as had the Flathead Indians from Montana.

Afterwards, these six groups had formed into the Freedom Federation, pledging to present a united front to any adversaries and to work toward wresting the country from the savage barbarism prevalent since the collapse of civilization.

Which worried the Soviets no end. General Malenkov and the other Russian leaders viewed the Freedom Federation as their primary enemy, to be eliminated at all costs, no matter what steps might be necessary. The Family was considered to be the soul of the Freedom Federation; they were the smallest numerically, yet they exerted the greatest influence in the Freedom Federation councils. The files the spy had sent contained extensive information on the Family, but not enough to satisfy General Malenkov. He’d ordered a squad sent to capture a Family member, and then truth serum could extract pertinent information detailing the Family’s exploitable weaknesses.

And here I am, Lieutenant Lysenko mentally noted as he hurried after Grozny and Serov.

Several sparrows suddenly flew from a dense bush 20 yards to the rear.

Lysenko stopped, training his AK-47 on the bush, waiting.

Nothing else happened.

Lieutenant Lysenko jogged to the southeast. He knew General Malenkov viewed this assignment as being critically important, especially in light of the recent fiasco in Philadelphia. The Soviets could not afford to conduct campaigns on two fronts. The Family’s destruction was imperative. The Family was the unifying element in the Freedom Federation. Without the wise guidance of the Family, the Freedom Federation would fall apart. Or so General Malenkov believed. But how to accomplish the Family’s elimination? Lysenko had participated in two policy sessions. Some high-ranking officers had wanted to send in a large force and wipe out the Family in one fell swoop. But this had been tried before, and it had signally failed. Others had advocated bombing the Home or using long-range missiles, but this idea contained crucial flaws. Soviet planes and jets were in disrepair, incapable of flying the tremendous distance involved. Their helicopters were marginally functional, too unreliable to undertake a full-scale assault of the compound. None of the aerial means, including missiles, could deliver a payload guaranteed to demolish a 30-acre expanse. And General Malenkov did not want any survivors, any martyrs to stir up the Freedom Federation. So Malenkov had proposed using deadly chemical weapons. To be completely effective, the Russians needed to know the layout of the Home, something their spy had been unable to uncover.

All of this passed through Lieutenant Lysenko’s mind as he sprinted up a low hill. Fate had smiled on him. If he could pull this off, General Malenkov would be duly impressed. And when an officer was in Malenkov’s favor, the sky was the limit as far as his career was concerned.

Lysenko grinned. He would give anything to please his superior.

Lysenko reached the top of the hill and stopped, glancing back. He thought of the sparrows, and he wondered if they were being pursued.

Except for the startled birds, there had been no other indication of anyone on their trail. The Warriors might be exceptionally competent, but it was doubtful they could chase someone through the thick forest without making some noise. The muted snap of a twig, or the faint rustle of a branch, could betray the stealthiest of professionals. Perfect silence, at the speed Serov, Grozny, and him were maintaining, was virtually impossible.

Or was it?

Lieutenant Lysenko started down the far side of the hill, bothered by a fact from the files he had neglected in the excitement of the moment.

What about the genetic deviates?

The brilliant Doktor had specialized in genetic engineering, in creating unique test-tube offspring, creatures combining human and animal qualities, aberrations endowed with bestial senses, yet governed by a rational intellect. Three of these genetic deviates, according to the files, now resided with the Family, had actually joined the Family in its fight with the Doktor, rebelling against their demented creator. Lysenko had heard other tales about the deviates, about their grotesque appearance and extraordinary abilities, even reports the deviates consumed humans.

He quickened his pace.

The minutes dragged by.

The helicopter had deposited the squad ten miles to the southeast of the Home, in a spacious clearing in the woods. Lysenko had hidden their radio before departing for the Home. The helicopter had returned to Decatur for refueling and to await their transmission signifying their mission was completed.

Lieutenant Lysenko spotted Grozny and Serov 40 yards ahead, waiting.

He ran to join them.

Grozny was on one knee, breathing heavily, the blonde on the ground beside him.

Serov was leaning against a tree, scanning the nearby vegetation.

“Why have you stopped?” Lieutenant Lysenko demanded as he reached them.

Grozny looked up. “I have carried her eight miles, sir. I am fatigued.”

Lysenko frowned. “You can rest when we get to the rendezvous point. Not before. On your feet!”

Grozny slowly stood, his left hand held to his side. “So sorry, comrade, but I have a pain.”

“You are becoming soft, Grozny,” Lysenko snapped.

Grozny resented the insult. “Soft? Who else could carry over a hundred pounds for eight miles?”

“I could,” chimed in a new voice.

The Russians whirled.

There were three of them, calmly standing between two trees, not more than ten yards to the west. The one on the right was the tallest, about five feet ten, and humanoid in aspect. The creature was naked except for a brown loincloth. Its skin was gray and leathery. A hawklike skull dominated its squat neck. Its nose was pointed, its ears no more than tiny circles of flesh on either side of its bald head. The mouth was a thin slit.

The eyes contained bizarre, bright red pupils. Its expression reflected its nervousness.

The one on the left wore a black loincloth, and its feral features radiated sheer animosity. This deviate only reached four feet in height, and couldn’t have weighed more than 60 pounds. Brown hair, about three inches in length, covered its entire body. Its head was outsized for its diminutive form. A long, tapered nose almost resembled a snout. Beady brown eyes shifted from trooper to trooper.

In the center was the smallest deviate, just shy of four feet tall, but weighing about as much as the feral one. A thick coat of short, grayish-brown hair or fur encased his wiry physique. A gray loincloth protected his genitals. His eyes were vivid green and slightly slanted. His ears were pointed. He resembled, for all the world, a living cat-man.

Pointed nails capped his bony fingers. Amazingly, his posture conveyed a supreme nonchalance. He was even grinning, exposing his needlelike teeth. “Hi, there, chuckles!” he said to Lysenko in a high-pitched, lisping voice. “We’re the Three Musketeers. I’m Athos. This”—he indicated his tall companion—“is Aramis. And this”—he nodded at the feral one—“is Porthos. We’re here to shish-kebab your gonads!”

Lieutenant Lysenko recovered quickly. His initial stupefaction subsided, and he leveled his AK-47 and squeezed the trigger.

Too late.

The three… things… darted from view, taking cover behind the trees, moving with astonishing speed. One moment they were there; the next they were gone.

Lysenko’s burst struck the two trees, splintering the wood, sending chips flying. He ceased firing, glancing at Grozny, jerked his head to the left.

Grozny nodded and crouched, stepping to the left of the trees.

Lysenko motioned for Serov to do likewise to the right. He. waited while his men cautiously neared the trees from opposite sides, prepared to catch the genetic deviates in a cross fire.

Grozny and Serov paused, exchanged glances, and swept around the trees, weapons at the ready.

“Well?” Lysenko barked when they failed to fire.

“They’re gone!” Grozny exclaimed.

“Gone? Where could they go?” Lysenko queried in disbelief.

Harsh laughter sounded from the wall of forest beyond.

Grozny and Serov backpedaled to Lysenko’s side.

“What are they?” Serov hissed.

“Mutants,” Lieutenant Lysenko answered. “Man-made mutants.”

“They’re dead mutants if they show their faces again,” Grozny vowed.

From in the woods came a low, raspy question: “Should I be scared now, or later?”

More laughter.

“What do we do?” Serov asked in a soft whisper.

“You can drop your guns and give up!” ordered the one with the high, lisping voice, the cat-man. “And we’ll let you live!”

“You are insane!” Lysenko shouted. “You don’t even carry guns!”

The cat-man snickered. “I don’t need a gun, bub! My nails will slice you open like a rotten melon!”

Grozny was peering into the vegetation. “Where the hell are they? I can’t see them!”

Lieutenant Lysenko looked at the blonde. Inspiration struck. “I know you come from the Home!” he shouted. “I know what you are!”

“I think we’ve just been insulted,” said the low, raspy voice, seemingly coming from a tangle of brush to the left.

“If you don’t come out now,” Lieutenant Lysenko warned, “I will kill our prisoner!”

“I wouldn’t do that, dimples, if I were you!” yelled the cat-man. “Her hubby is after your ass, and he’s one mad son of a gun. His name is Hickok. Maybe you’ve heard of him? He’s got quite a rep. I expect he’ll jam his Colt Pythons up your butt and keep pullin’ the triggers until the cylinders are empty!”

“I’m serious!” Lysenko repeated his threat. “I’ll kill her!”

The cat-man uttered a peculiar trilling sound. “Not nice, chuckles! Not nice at all!”

Silence descended.

“Do you think they’ve gone?” Serov asked hopefully.

“Come out!” Lysenko bellowed.

“Please!” cried a new voice, coming from directly ahead. “Surrender, yes? Avoid bloodshed, no?”

Lieutenant Lysenko was stymied. He could hear the deviates, but couldn’t see them. And he couldn’t shoot what he couldn’t see. He was bluffing about killing the blonde, because General Malenkov needed her alive. Lysenko suspected the damn mutants were deliberately delaying their escape, hindering them until the Warriors could arrive.

“What do we do, sir?” Serov asked anxiously.

Before Lysenko could reply, a high-pitched voice, from directly behind them, answered, “I say we play peekaboo!”

The Russians soldiers spun.

The cat-man and the feral one were already in motion. The cat-man leaped onto Grozny, burying the tapered tips of his right fingernails in Grozny’s eyes, even as his left hand, his fingers pressed together, forming a compact point, speared into Grozny’s throat. Grozny screamed as the cat-man tore his eyeballs from their sockets and ripped his neck from chin to chest.

Serov bravely endeavored to bring his AK-47 into play as the feral creature landed on his chest in one bound. Snarling, the deviate placed a hairy hand on either side of Serov’s astounded face, then brutally wrenched Serov’s head to the left. There was a distinct popping noise, and Serov slumped to the ground.

Lieutenant Lysenko had retreated several steps, unable to fire without hitting Grozny and Serov. He aimed at the feral one as Serov fell, but before he could shoot, the third mutant intervened. Steely gray arms encircled him, lifted him from the ground. The pressure was unbelievable.

He felt like his chest was on the verge of being crushed. His AK-47 clattered to the earth.

The feral one was standing with its arms folded, smirking, staring at Serov.

The cat-man suddenly rose from Grozny’s body, its hands soaked with blood, dripping crimson. It grinned, then glared at Lysenko. “Put the Red down, Gremlin,” he said. “I want to have some fun.”

Gremlin twisted his torso, holding the soldier away from his feline friend. “No, Lynx! Blade wanted them alive, yes? Must spare this one, no?”

Lynx shook his head, his ears twitching. “I just want to have a little fun with him.”

“Bet me!” interjected the feral one in his low, rasping tone. “I’ve seen that look in your eyes before. You’ve got the blood lust.”

“Who asked you, Ferret?” Lynx quipped.

“I know what I’m talking about,” Ferret persisted. “All of us are prone to it. Maybe its part of our genetic constitution. You know as well as I that the damn Doktor designed us as his personal assassin corps.”

“Yeah,” Lynx concurred. “The Doc was always braggin’ about being the only person able to edit the genetic instructions encoded in DNA, or some such garbage. Odds are, he intended for us to live to kill.”

Gremlin shook his leathery head. “Gremlin has never had blood lust, yes? Must not be true for all of us, no?”

Lynx snickered. “Gremlin, you’re such a goody-goody, you’d never kill anyone or anything just for the thrill of it.”

Gremlin frowned. “There is a thrill in killing, yes?”

“For some of us,” Lynx confessed. He nodded at the Red. “You’re real lucky, pal. If I hadn’t of given my word to Blade, you’d be mincemeat right about now.”

“Listen!” Ferret exclaimed.

There was a crashing in the underbrush, and a man dashed into view, breathing heavily from the strenuous exertion of having run eight miles.

He was a lean blond, with a sweeping handlebar mustache. Buckskins and moccasins covered his muscular frame. Strapped around his waist were a pair of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers.

“Hickok!” Lynx declared. “We’re having a pajama party! Care to join us?”

The gunman ignored the comment. His blue eyes swept the area, and locked on the unconscious figure of his wife. He ran up to her.

Lynx glanced at Ferret. “Is this what they mean by true love?”

Hickok knelt by Sherry’s side and cradled her in his arms. He carefully examined her but couldn’t find any visible injury.

“Sherry is fine, yes?” Gremlin asked hopefully.

“She’d best be,” Hickok growled. He took her in his arms, then stood.

“Do you need some help?” Ferret asked.

Hickok shook his head. He walked over to the Russian officer, his seething eyes pinpoints of fury. “If you’ve hurt her, you bastard, you’re dead! Nothing will keep me from you! No one will stop me! I’ll kill you inch by miserable inch, until you beg for mercy! You understand me?”

Lieutenant Lysenko scowled.

Lynx looked at Ferret, beaming. “I love it when he talks like that!”

Hickok leaned toward the Russian. “You wipe that off your face, or I’ll kill you right now!”

“Hickok!”

The speaker was new to the scene, a giant of a man, striding toward them, his massive arms and legs bulging with raw power. His hair was dark, his eyes a piercing gray, his complexion rugged. He wore a black leather vest and green fatigue pants, as well as moccasins, the typical Family footwear. A pair of Bowies, his favorite weapons, rested in their sheaths, one on each hip.

“Uh-oh!” Lynx declared. “The party-pooper is here!”

“I need him alive,” the big man said to Hickok.

Hickok’s lips compressed. He glanced at the giant, then nodded. “Fine by me, Blade, but I want him when you’re through.”

“That’s not up to me,” Blade said, “and you know it.”

Hickok gazed at the soldier. “I’ll be seein’ you.” He walked off, Sherry nestled in his arms.

Blade studied the dead men, then stared at Lynx. “I thought I told you I wanted them alive.”

Lynx shrugged. “Couldn’t be helped. Besides, we did save you one of them.”

Blade moved over to Gremlin. “I’ll take him from here.”

“Gremlin can carry to Home for you, yes?” Gremlin asked.

“Thanks,” Blade responded. “But the Warriors will take over now.” He drew his right Bowie.

Gremlin released the Russian.

Lieutenant Lysenko dropped to the ground, landing on his knees. The razor edge of a Bowie was abruptly applied to his neck.

“You give me any trouble,” Blade stated, “and I’ll let Hickok have you!

Stand up! Move!”

Lysenko obeyed.

Blade started ushering the Russian in the direction of the Home.

“Hey!” Lynx called.

Blade paused. “What?”

“What about us?” Lynx inquired. “No thank you’? No pat on the back?

No parade in our honor?”

“I’m sure Hickok will thank you personally,” Blade said. “I appreciate what you did. You three caught up with them much faster than we could have—”

“You got that right,” Lynx commented. “—but I must get this one locked up, and see how Sherry is doing, and send out a detail for the bodies of Jean and Claudia. Talk to you later,” Blade remarked. He took another step, prodding the Russian officer with his Bowie.

“What about these dead troopers?” Ferret inquired. “Want us to leave them here?”

“No,” Blade replied over his right shoulder. “They might attract a mutate, or something worse. Bury them.”

Lynx watched the Warrior chief and the Red disappear in the trees, then turned, gesturing angrily. “How about that? We pull Sherry’s fat out of the fire, and this is the thanks we get! Bury them? I say we leave ’em for the worms!”

“Blade wants them buried,” Ferret said.

“So who is he? Our fairy godmother? Why do we have to listen to him?” Lynx retorted.

“You know why,” Gremlin mentioned. “The Family has been nice to us, yes? Given us a place to live, when no one else would, no? We owe them, yes?”

Lynx sighed. “Yeah, I guess we do. But I’ve got to tell you guys something.” He placed his hands on his hips. “I’m gettin’ real tired of this life. I mean, I’m bored to tears! Oh, sure, the Family is as sweet a bunch of people as you’d ever want to meet. And they’ve been real nice to us. Feedin’ us. Treatin’ us like one of their own.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Gremlin wanted to know. “Is pleasant, yes?”

“Yeah,” Lynx agreed, “but it’s also a pain in the butt! Look! We were just talkin’ about the good Doktor, about how he created us to be killing machines. Well, I don’t know about you two clowns, but I’m dying for some excitement in my life! Something to get the blood flowin’, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Ferret said, listening attentively.

“Wasting these morons was the most fun I’ve had in ages,” Lynx went on.

“I did… enjoy… myself,” Ferret acknowledged.

“See?” Lynx said. “I’ll be honest with you. The Family is so devoted to the Spirit, so involved with loving one another and being kind and courteous and all, sometimes they make me want to puke!” Gremlin appeared to be shocked. “You exaggerate, yes?”

“A little,” Lynx confessed. “But you get my drift.”

“So what can we do about it?” Ferret asked.

“There’s nothing we can do, no?” Gremlin stated.

“We could leave the Home,” Ferret suggested.

Gremlin’s mouth dropped. “Ferret not serious, yes?”

“Why not?” Ferret countered. “I like the Family too. But there might be somewhere else in the world where we’d fit in even better.”

“Gremlin never leave Home,” Gremlin stated.

“Neither would I,” Lynx agreed.

“But you just said—” Ferret began.

“I said,” Lynx replied, cutting him off, “I was bored to tears. Not stupid! We’ve never had it so good. The Family are our friends. We’d be idiots to cut out on them.”

“Then how do you plan to inject some excitement into your life?” Ferret inquired skeptically.

“There has to be a way,” Lynx declared.

“I don’t see how,” Ferret said.

“Me neither,” Gremlin remarked.

Lynx sighed. “Well, let’s get to plantin’ these jerks.”

Gremlin scoured the earth for a likely spot. “Too bad we’re not Warriors, yes?” he commented absently, squatting.

Lynx’s ears perked up. “What? What did you say?”

Gremlin began scooping some soft dirt from a small grassy patch. “Too bad we’re not Warriors, yes? Then we could do like Blade and the others, no? Lynx have more excitement than he’d know what to do with, yes?”

Gremlin chuckled at the preposterous notion.

Lynx reacted as if he’d been zapped by a lightning bolt. He straightened, his eyes widening and gleaming from a dawning revelation.

His hands shook with excitement. “That’s it!”

“That’s what?” Ferret asked.

“That’s how we’ll do it!” Lynx, unable to restrain his enthusiasm, jumped up and down several times, cackling.

Ferret and Gremlin exchanged glances.

Lynx ran over to Gremlin and, before Gremlin quite knew what he was about, gave him a fleeting hug. “You did it!” he shouted in delight. “You’re brilliant!”

Gremlin was flabbergasted.

“What are you babbling about?” Ferret demanded.

“Don’t you see?” Lynx replied ecstatically.

“All I see,” Ferret said, “is you acting like an idiot.”

“You don’t get it?” Lynx gazed at both of them.

“Get what?” Ferret inquired.

Lynx shook his head, grinning. “Look. I’ll spell it out for you dummies!

Who’s responsible for the security of the Home?”

“The Warriors,” Ferret answered.

“And who’s pledged to protect the Family?” Lynx queried.

“The Warriors,” Ferret responded.

“Exactly! And who’s always gettin’ involved in a fight of some kind or another in the performance of their duties?”

Ferret pursed his lips and glanced at Gremlin. “Is he leading up to what I think he’s leading up to?”

Lynx smiled contentedly. “The solution is simple! If we want some excitement in our lives, some thrills to alleviate the boredom, then,”—he paused—“we become Warriors!”

Ferret snorted and shook his head.

Gremlin laughed.

Lynx was offended. “What’s the matter with you two? It’s a great idea!”

“The only way you’ll ever come up with a great idea,” Ferret said, “is if you have a brain transplant.”

“Very funny!” Lynx said stiffly.

“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings,” Ferret stated. “But think about your proposal.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Lynx asked.

“Everything. For starters, the Family already has enough Warriors.

Fifteen, isn’t it? Divided into five Triads of three Warriors apiece. They don’t need another Triad,” Ferret said.

“How do you know?” Lynx countered. “Plato might like the idea.”

“I’m not finished,” Ferret remarked. “Being a Warrior isn’t a post you take lightly. It’s a major responsibility. All of those people are relying on you to safeguard them from harm. Their lives are in your hands.” He paused. “It’s not a job you take for the fun of it.”

Gremlin snickered.

“Who said I’d take the job lightly?” Lynx demanded.

“Ferret is right,” Gremlin chimed in. “Being a Warrior is very important, yes? Without Warriors, the Family would not survive in this world, no?”

“So who said I’d take it lightly?” Lynx reiterated angrily.

“Forget it,” Ferret suggested.

“Who died and appointed you leader?” Lynx rejoined.

“Lynx forget it, yes?” Gremlin said, adding his opinion.

Lynx looked from one to the other. “I’m not givin’ up that easily. I’ll find a way to convince you.”

“I don’t take bribes,” Ferret quipped.

Lynx’s shoulders slumped dejectedly. “You know, it’s true what they say.”

“What do they say?” Ferret asked, walking over to assist Gremlin with the digging.

“Nobody really appreciates a genius,” Lynx commented seriously.

Ferret chuckled. “Show us a genius, and we’ll appreciate him.”

Gremlin stared at Lynx. “Genius help us dig, yes? Or maybe genius is too good for manual labor, no?”

Lynx vented his frustration by hissing. “Ingrates!” he muttered.

Ferret nudged Gremlin. “If he’s acting this crazy today, we’d best keep a close eye on him tonight.”

Gremlin’s forehead creased. “Why?”

“The moon will be out.”