Liberty Run

Chapter Three

Morning of the next day.

Six men and a woman were gathered near the open drawbridge in the west wall of the Home. Lieutenant Lysenko stood meekly in the middle of the group. The gunfighter, Hickok, was to his right. The Indian, Geronimo, to his left. Three other Warriors ringed him. One of them, a tall blond man in buckskin pants and a green shirt, armed with a broadsword, was familiar. Lysenko had seen Blade conversing with the man the day before in the infirmary, after Blade had returned to continue his interrogation. The Warrior with the broadsword was named Spartacus.

But the other two were new to Lysenko.

One was a beautiful dusky woman with an Afro. She wore a green fatigue shirt and pants, black boots, and carried an M-16. For some mysterious reason, she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off Hickok.

The other newcomer was a youth, obviously shy of his 20th birthday, possibly even younger. His hair and eyes were brown, his eyebrows bushy.

Whether deliberately or not, he wore his long hair in the same style as Hickok. His clothing was all black, and patterned after a cut Lysenko was unfamiliar with, incorporating wide lapels and tight pants legs. A revolver was strapped to his right thigh.

Blade was four feet away, arms at his side, glancing from one to the other. “You have your instructions. Any questions?”

“Yeah,” Hickok said. He grinned at Lysenko. “If this cow chip makes a break for it, can I perforate his noggin?”

“Do whatever is necessary,” Blade advised, “but keep him alive until after you retrieve the radio transmitter. I don’t care what happens to him afterwards.”

Lysenko frowned. “You promised I would be set free if I helped you!” he protested.

“And you will be,” Blade assured him.

Lysenko nodded toward Hickok. “How do I know he will do as you say?

How do I know he won’t decide to kill me on the way back?”

“Hickok is a Warrior,” Blade stated. “He follows orders.”

Hickok leaned toward the officer, smirking. “Which makes you the luckiest hombre alive.”

“It’s only ten miles there, and ten back,” Blade addressed them. “I expect you here before dark.”

“No problem,” Geronimo said. In addition to his tomahawk and the Arminius, he carried a Marlin 45-70.

Blade glanced at Hickok. “All of you should take rifles or automatics,” he commented.

Hickok nodded, then looked at the youth in black. “Shane, I want you to run to the armory and grab a rifle or whatever, and pick one up for Spartacus.”

“I prefer a Heckler and Koch HK93,” Spartacus said to Shane.

Shane started to run off.

“Whoa!” Hickok called.

Shane stopped and turned.

“Swing by my cabin, will you, and ask Sherry for my Henry?” Hickok said, referring to his cherished Navy Arms Henry Carbine.

Shane grinned, eager to please his acknowledged hero. “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” he promised, and sprinted to the east.

The black woman laughed. “That boy’d lick your boots clean if you asked him!”

“I’m not wearing boots,” Hickok rejoined.

“Moccasins. Boots.” The black woman shrugged. “It wouldn’t make no nevermind to Shane. Ain’t you noticed how he’s put you up on a pedestal?”

“I’ve noticed, Bertha,” Hickok said, sighing.

“Shane isn’t the only one,” Geronimo interjected, winking at Bertha.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Bertha demanded.

“Oh, nothing,” Geronimo responded, grinning mischievously.

Blade smiled. Bertha’s long-standing crush on Hickok was common gossip around the Home. She’d been interested in the gunman ever since they’d met in Thief River Falls. Even Hickok’s later marriage to Sherry hadn’t dampened Bertha’s ardor. Although she was regularly seen in the company of several Family men, Bertha had never taken a mate. Some said she was holding out, saving herself in the forlorn hope Hickok might one day become available. Hickok, Blade knew, was extremely uncomfortable over the situation, but didn’t seem to know what to do about it. Sherry appeared to tolerate Bertha’s affection for her husband, as long as the affection was kept at a distance.

There was a sudden commotion to the north.

Blade looked to his right, puzzled. There they were. At it again. Lynx, Ferret, and Gremlin. The trio had spent every waking moment since their return yesterday, arguing. He couldn’t imagine the cause of their dispute, but it was evident Lynx was constantly remonstrating w ith the other two over something.

“I’ll be back in a bit, pard,” Hickok declared, and walked toward the bickering mutants. He could see Ferret and Gremlin shaking their heads, and Lynx gesturing angrily. A few of the words Lynx was saying became audible.

“…morons… couldn’t find your butts… broad daylight…!”

Ferret spotted the gunman when he was still ten yards off, and quickly whispered to the other two.

The argument abruptly ceased.

Hickok chuckled as he neared them.

All three faced the gunfighter. All three were smiling serenely. All three smiles were patently phony.

“What’s with you bozos?” Hickok greeted them.

“You’ve been spattin’ like three stallions over a mare on the make!”

Lynx stretched his fake grin even wider. “Spattin’? Us? No way. We’ve been havin’ an intelligent discussion.”

Ferret snorted.

Lynx ignored him. “What can we do for you, Hickok?”

Hickok stared at each of them. “I plumb forgot yesterday. I owe you boys a debt.”

“No, you don’t,” Lynx said.

“You saved my missus from those pricks,” Hickok stated. “I wanted to thank each of you, personal-like. And let you know I’m in your debt. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just say the word.”

“There’s no need,” Lynx declared.

“Yes, there is,” Hickok disagreed.

“You’re our friend,” Lynx elaborated. “You’ve always treated us with respect. We just returned the favor.”

Hickok put his right hand on Lynx’s shoulder. “I’m serious about this. I’ll never be able to thank you enough. Anything I can do for you, I will.”

“Thanks,” Lynx said, “but you don’t…” He stopped, blinking rapidly.

“What’s wrong?” Hickok asked.

“Nothin’,” Lynx replied, beginning to smile again.

“I’ll be seein’ you,” Hickok said, and began to turn away.

“Just a minute!” Lynx said, a look of triumph on his face.

Hickok paused. “What is it?”

“Can you clarify somethin’ for me?” Lynx inquired.

“If I can.” Hickok answered. “Shoot.”

Lynx beamed at Ferret and Gremlin, then faced the gunman. “I need some info about the Warriors.”

“What about them?” Hickok replied.

“To become a candidate for consideration by the Elders,” Lynx said, “doesn’t a person have to be nominated by a Warrior?”

“Uh-oh,” Ferret interjected.

Hickok glanced at Ferret, perplexed, then answered Lynx. “We call it being sponsored. A candidate for Warrior status must be sponsored by an active Warrior before the Elders will vote on admittin’ them to the Warrior ranks. Why?”

“Oh, just curious,” Lynx lied. “Tell me somethin’. How many candidates can a single Warrior sponsor?”

“I don’t follow you,” Hickok said.

“For instance,” Lynx detailed, “let’s pretend two people want to become Warriors. Could a single Warrior, like yourself for example, sponsor both of them?”

Hickok pondered for a moment. “It’s never been done that way before, but I reckon it would be okay.”

“And what about if three people wanted to become Warriors,” Lynx went on. “Could you sponsor all three?”

“I could give it a shot,” Hickok said. “And I could always talk Blade, Geronimo, or one of the others into sidin’ with me. Why?”

“No reason,” Lynx stated. “Like I said. I was just curious.”

“Are you thinkin’ of becoming a Warrior?” Hickok asked.

“No, he isn’t!” Ferret responded before Lynx could answer.

“Must excuse Lynx, yes?” Gremlin added. “Received bump on head yesterday, no?”

“I did not!” Lynx declared testily.

Hickok saw Shane racing from the east, his arms laden with the requested weapons. “I’ll be seein’ you,” he told them.

“I’d like to talk to you when you get back,” Lynx said.

“No, he wouldn’t,” Ferret remarked.

Hickok shook his head and ambled toward the drawbridge. Behind him, Lynx, Ferret, and Gremlin started up again in hushed tones.

“…idiots!” Lynx snapped.

“…not asking him!” Ferret responded.

Hickok could only distinguish a few more words as he moved away.

“…had a brain… be dangerous!” came from Lynx.

“…over my dead body!” came from Ferret.

“…be arranged!” was part of Lynx’s rejoinder.

And then Hickok was out of hearing range. He wondered if Lynx did, indeed, want to become a Warrior. Hickok favored the notion. He’d seen Lynx in action during the Battle of Armageddon, as the Family liked to call the fight in Callow, Wyoming, and he judged Lynx to be prime Warrior material. If the runt wanted sponsorin’, he’d be right proud to oblige.

“Here you go!” Shane exclaimed, out of breath, holding the guns in his arms.

Spartacus took his HK93.

Hickok grabbed his Henry.

Shane was left with a Winchester Model 94 and his Llama Comanche .357 Magnum on his right hip.

Blade was standing next to Spartacus. “What was that all about?” he asked Hickok, while nodding toward the trio still debating to the north.

“Beats me, pard,” Hickok admitted. “I think Lynx wants to become a Warrior, but Ferret and Gremlin don’t cotton to the idea.”

“Lynx a Warrior?” Blade said thoughtfully. “That’s a good idea. Come to think of it, all three of them would make great Warriors.”

“Maybe you should let them know,” Hickok suggested.

“I’ll talk to them when I get the chance,” Blade said. “Right now I must find Plato.” He surveyed their group. “Take care out there. May the Spirit be with you.” He departed.

Hickok waved his right arm toward the drawbridge. “Let’s move out!

Spartacus, take the point. Shane and Bertha—the rear. Stay in sight at all times!”

The Warriors assumed their formation, and their retrieval party departed the Home. Some of the Family members ceased their activities to watch the group leave.

“You said to the southeast, right?” Hickok asked Lysenko.

Lysenko nodded.

“Spartacus!” Hickok yelled. “Bear southeast. We’ll guide you with hand signals. Stay alert!”

Spartacus nodded, moving to a position 15 yards in front of Hickok, Geronimo, and Lysenko. Bertha and Shane were an equal distance behind them.

“I hope I can find the clearing again,” Lysenko commented as they crossed the field to the south of the compound.

Hickok wagged the Henry barrel in the Russian’s face. “You’d best find it, you four-flushin’ coyote!”

Lysenko glanced at Geronimo. “Excuse me. Is it permissible to ask you a few questions?”

“Why are you asking me?” Geronimo replied.

Lysenko motioned to Hickok. “I know he would not talk to me.”

“You’re not as dumb as you look,” Hickok stated crisply.

Geronimo nodded. “I guess it would be all right. Blade says you’ve been cooperating fully with us. What do you want to know?”

“Several things,” Lysenko said. “For starters, why does Hickok talk so strangely?”

Geronimo laughed. “Everybody asks the same thing. Have you ever heard of the Wild West?”

“The Old American West?” Lysenko said. “I read a little about it in one of my history classes. As you probably know, we are versed in both cultures. We study Russian and American history. And we become bilingual, speaking English and Russian fluently.”

“So Hickok told us after his visit to Washington,” Cieronimo stated.

“Hickok talks the way he does because he likes the Old West?” Lysenko queried.

“Because he admires a man who lived way back then,” Geronimo explained. “A man by the name of James Butler Hickok. The dummy in the buckskins talks the way he thinks the real Hickok would have talked.”

“Most peculiar,” Lysenko remarked.

“I’ve been saying that for years,” Geronimo quipped, and laughed.

Hickok ignored them. They reached the edge of the forest and entered the trees.

“Some other aspects of your Family puzzle me,” Lysenko said.

“Like what?” Geronimo responded.

“Your informal attitude, for one thing,” Lynsenko stated. “You are all so relaxed in your relations. Plato is your Leader, yet not once did I observe anyone accord him any special respect. And you Warriors! Blade is your chief, yet you talk to him like you would anyone else. There is no saluting, no drill, no regimentation in your Warrior organization. You don’t even wear uniforms!” he marveled.

“Why should we?” Geronimo replied.

“Regimentation promotes discipline,” Lysenko commented.

“No,” Geronimo corrected him, “regimentation promotes subservience.

We deliberately shun formality. Our Founder was a wise man. He saw what happened to the prewar society. Everyone was required to fit into a certain mold. Behave in an acceptable manner. Wear fashionable clothes.

Even trim their hair in faddish styles. If they didn’t, they were considered outcasts or weird. People were denied the opportunity to express themselves, to assert their individual personality. They were manipulated by the power-mongers at every turn.” He paused. “Carpenter wanted to discourage formality, so he instituted a policy allowing Family members one name, and one name only. No Mr. So-and-So. No Miss or Ms. or Mrs. He thought last names bred a sense of false civility. And he felt the same way about titles. Titles were used to make people inferior to the one with the title. There was ‘Mr. President,’ or ‘Your Honor,’ or ‘Your Majesty.’ Carpenter despised that practice, so he implemented a policy where each and every Family member receives a title. Whether it’s Tiller, Healer, Empath, Warrior, or whatever, we’re all equal socially. No one lords it over anyone else. And that’s the way we prefer it.”

“Amazing,” Lysenko mentioned.

Hickok abruptly stopped and glared at Geronimo.

“What’s wrong with you?” Geronimo asked.

“Why the blazes are you being so nice to this prick?” Hickok demanded.

“What’s the harm in a little conversation?” Geronimo retorted.

Hickok stabbed his right thumb toward Lysenko. “This bastard killed two of our sisters!”

“I know that,” Geronimo said slowly.

“Then how the hell can you be so friendly toward him?” Hickok queried angrily.

“Just because I’m talking to the man doesn’t make me his friend!” Geronimo stated defensively.

“It does in my book!” Hickok snapped, and marched several feet ahead.

They walked in an uncomfortable silence for several minutes.

“I know it’s not any consolation,” Lysenko said in a restrained voice, “but I deeply regret what happened to the two women.”

“Sure you do, you mangy varmint!” Hickok barked over his left shoulder.

“I do!” Lysenko insisted. “I was merely following orders—and I know that’s no excuse—and I see that it was wrong.”

Hickok snorted.

Lysenko glanced at the stocky Indian. “You believe me, don’t you?”

Geronimo laughed. “Doesn’t matter what I believe.”

“But I’m sincere!” Lysenko said. “I’ve never felt like this before. Never felt remorse over the slaying of an enemy.”

“Enemy!” Hickok exploded, whirling. “They were Healers, you Red scum! They were devoted to helpin’ others! They wanted to relieve suffering and pain! And you and your rotten henchmen killed ’em!”

Lysenko blanched.

Hickok’s right hand dropped near his right Python. “Not another word out of you, you hear? Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to! You got that?”

Lysenko nodded.

Hickok wheeled and stalked off.

Geronimo studied the broad back of his best friend, worried. He had never seen Hickok so emotional over the death of a Family member, or in this case two, before. The gunman was hotheaded at times, even reckless on occasion. But he rarely permitted his feelings to impair his better judgment. So why was Hickok acting so temperamentally now? Was it because Sherry had nearly been abducted? Was Hickok regretting having agreed to Sherry becoming a Warrior? Or was it something else? Hickok had loved another woman before Sherry, a Warrior named Joan. Joan had been slain in the line of duty, despite Hickok’s efforts to protect her from harm. Had the unsettling incident with Sherry and the Russians rekindled his anxiety? Was the gunman tormented by the prospect of losing Sherry too? Geronimo increased his speed, caught up with his friend.

“What do you want?” Hickok barked. “Why don’t you stick with your Commie buddy?”

Geronimo’s brown eyes narrowed. “That crack was uncalled for, and you damn well know it!”

Hickok didn’t reply.

“Nathan,” Geronimo said, “I’m sorry.”

“You should be!” Hickok said.

“Not for talking to Lysenko,” Geronimo stated. “You know as well as I why I did it.”

“Oh? Do I?” Hickok rejoined acidly.

“Yeah. We covered it in our Warrior Psychology Class, remember? How if you engage an enemy in idle chitchat, sometimes they’ll let an important fact slip without realizing it,” Geronimo elaborated.

“Whoop-de-do for psychology!” Hickok commented.

Geronimo frowned. “Cut the crap and listen to me! I said I was sorry. Not about Lysenko. But about you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, dimwit. I should have realized sooner how upset you were about Sherry. I should have been more sensitive to the hurt you’re feeling inside. For that, I’m sorry,” Geronimo declared.

Hickok glanced at the man who knew him better than anyone else, except perhaps Blade. His blue eyes were troubled. “I almost lost her!” he exclaimed in a tortured whisper.

“But you didn’t,” Geronimo reminded him.

“I would have,” Hickok said, “if it hadn’t been for Lynx and the others. They could trail the Russians by scent, and do in minutes what would have taken us hours tryin’ to find tracks.” He paused, then visibly shivered. “I almost lost her, Geronimo!”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Geronimo advised. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“You know,” Hickok said softly, for once neglecting to use his Wild West jargon, “I don’t know if I could stand to have it happen again. Losing Joan was terrible, the worst experience in my life. When Sherry first told me she wanted to become a Warrior, I really came close to telling her we were through if she did. But I decided I couldn’t put a leash on her, couldn’t make her live the kind of life I figured was right for her. She has a mind of her own. She can make her own decisions.”

“I think you did the right thing,” Geronimo remarked.

“I thought so too,” Hickok concurred. “But now I’m not so sure.” He stared into Geronimo’s eyes. “If I lose her, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Why worry about it?” Geronimo asked. “Like you said, Sherry has a mind of her own. You couldn’t have stopped her from becoming a Warrior, even if you wanted to. The best you can do now is to hang in there, to be there when she needs you, and pray nothing happens to her.”

“I reckon you’re right,” Hickok observed. He exhaled noisily. “Danged contrary females!”

“Look!” Geronimo suddenly exclaimed, pointing directly ahead.

Hickok looked.

Spartacus was hiding behind a tree trunk, motioning for them to take cover.

Hickok whirled. He saw Bertha and Shane, about 15 yards off, watching him intently. He waved for them to go to ground.

Geronimo grabbed Lysenko’s right arm and pulled the officer around a dense bush.

Hickok spotted a low boulder five yards to his left. He ran to the rock and crouched. What in the blazes was it? he wondered. He cradled the Henry and peered over the top of the boulder.

Just in time.

The cause of Spartacus’s alarm plodded into view. Once, the monstrosity might have been a whitetail buck, hardly a menace to humans. But now the hapless buck had been transformed, changed into a hairless, pus-covered horror by the regenerating chemical clouds, one of the many biological-warfare elements employed during World War Three.

Ordinary mammals, reptiles, and amphibians could undergo the same revolting metamorphosis. Hair and scales would fall off, and be replaced by blistering sores. Green mucus would spew from their ears and nose.

Their teeth would yellow and rot. And they would become rabid engines of destruction, existing only to kill every living thing in their path.

The buck had stopped ten yards from Spartacus’s tree loudly sniffing the air.

Hickok hoped the critter wouldn’t detect their scent. This buck sported a huge rack, six points on one side alone, more than enough to inflict a fatal wound. And he knew the mutate would charge at the slightest provocation.

The Family employed different, but similar, terms to describe the various mutations proliferating since the Big Blast, as they called World War Three. The pus-covered chemically spawned creatures were known as mutates. The mutations resulting from the massive amount of radiation unleashed on the environment, producing aberrations like two-headed wolves and snakes with nine eyes, were simply labeled mutants. Insects were subject to inexplicable strains of giantism. And, finally, there were the scientifically manufactured mutations, the genetically engineered deviations. The nefarious Doktor had been responsible for Lynx, Ferret, and Gremlin, and a horde just like them. But the Doktor hadn’t been the only one to tamper with nature. Hickok had read books in the Family library, books detailing the experiments conducted by dozens of scientists shortly before the Big Blast. Experiments intended to create new life forms. Better life forms. They hadn’t always worked as designed. Hickok remembered reading about one such experiment in particular, one conducted in a laboratory in New York City. The genetic engineers had endeavored to bring into being a superior chimpanzee by fusing a chimp and human embryo; the resultant insane deviate had murdered 14 innocent people before it was brought to bay. The gunman ruminated on all of this as the mutate advanced several steps in his direction, still sniffing the air.

Spartacus was flat against the trunk of the tree.

The buck was now five yards from the tree, eyeing the surrounding vegetation.

Hickok glanced over his right shoulder, but he couldn’t see any sign of Bertha and Shane. Perfect! The mutate would wander off if they stayed concealed.

Someone sneezed.

The sound emanated from behind the bush screening Geronimo and Lysenko.

Instantly, the mutate bounded toward the bush.

Geronimo stepped into sight, his Marlin 45-70 pressed against his shoulder, and the big gun boomed while the mutate was in midair.

The mutate was struck in the left shoulder, pus and skin spraying in every direction. The impact of the 45-70 twisted the mutate to the left, deflecting it from its course, and it landed on all fours, tensing for another leap at the human in green. But it was now two yards to the left of Spartacus’s tree, in a clear line of fire.

Hickok rose up from behind the bounder, his Henry thundering, once, twice, three times in all, and each shot rocked the mutate as it was hit in the side.

Spartacus joined in with his HK93, the automatic chattering, the slugs ripping the mutate from its tail to its neck.

The mutate trembled as it was blasted again and again, uttering a harsh gurgling sound as it sank to its knees. The firing stopped.

That’s when Shane dashed up to the mutate and jammed the barrel of his Winchester into its left eye. He squeezed the trigger, and the mutate’s brains and an ample quantity of pus and mucus blew out the right side of its head.

The mutate dropped to the ground.

In the ensuring quiet, someone sneezed again.

Lieutenant Lysenko walked around the bush, the fingers of his right hand pinching his nose.

Hickok stepped up to the Russian. “What the blazes were you doin’? Tryin’ to get us killed?”

Lysenko removed his fingers from his nose. “Sorry.”

“Sorry don’t make it, polecat!” Hickok said.

“I tried to prevent it,” Lysenko stated.

“If it happens again,” Hickok assured him, “you won’t have a nose left to sneeze with!” He spun. “Let’s move out!”

Geronimo fell in beside the Russian as they resumed their trek.

Lysenko looked over his right shoulder at the dead mutate. “I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never seen one before. They’re horrible!”

“My Family calls them mutates,” Geronimo noted. “They’re all over the forest.”

“We’ve cleared any mutations out of the cities and towns,” Lysenko revealed. “But we still receive reports of them from the rural areas.”

“Yep. They’re all over,” Geronimo reiterated. “I hope you can run fast.”

Lysenko glanced at the Indian. “Why do you say that?”

“Blade’s planning to release you after we retrieve the transmitter, isn’t he?” Geronimo innocently asked.

“Yes,” Lysenko replied slowly.

“And he’ll supply you with a canteen and some jerky, right?” Geronimo said.

“Yes. So?”

“So a canteen isn’t much of a weapon when it comes to facing a mutate, or any of the other… things… in the woods,” Geronimo declared, suppressing a grin.

Lieutenant Lysenko stared at the trees and brush around them. His forehead furrowed and he chewed on his lower lip. “Surely Blade will allow me to take a firearm,” he said hopefully.

“Nope.” Geronimo shook his head. “Sorry. But it’s not our policy to arm our enemies. We’ve taken prisoners before, and we’ve always let the ones leave who wanted to leave. We’ve supplied them with a canteen and jerky, enough for a couple of days.” Geronimo deliberately pretended to be distracted by a starling winging overhead. He feigned a yawn. “Funny, though.”

“What is?” Lysenko immediately inquired.

“We don’t think any of them ever made it to civilization,” Geronimo mentioned.

“How would you know that?” Lysenko asked.

“We’ve followed a few of their tracks,” Geronimo fibbed.

Lysenko leaned forward. “And?” he goaded the Warrior.

“And they just up and vanished into thin air,” Geronimo said guilelessly.

Lieutenant Lysenko frowned.

“Oh! Wait!” Geronimo exclaimed.

“What?” Lysenko prompted.

“There was one we found. Well kind of. All we located was his torn, bloody shirt.” Geronimo looked away so the Russian couldn’t behold the twinkle in his eyes.

Lieutenant Lysenko began chewing on his lower lip in earnest.