Madman Run

Chapter Two

They resembled coyotes in shape and size, but there any resemblance ended. Hideously transformed by an unknown agent, the nine creatures loping toward the three humans lived purely to kill. Their bodies were hairless and covered with sores that oozed a yellowish-green pus. Their teeth were bared, their eyes blazing like miniature beacons of blood-crazed insanity.

Blade had seen such horrors before. The Family referred to such creatures as mutates. None of the Elders knew what caused them to exist, although Blade’s father and another man who was called Plato had often speculated the chemical weapons employed during the war were somehow responsible. If radiation was the culprit, so the reasoning went, then there would be humans similarly affected, and there wasn’t a single report in the entire Family history of a human mutate. As far as anyone knew, only reptiles, amphibians and mammals were mysteriously altered. Never had anyone observed a mutated bird or insect. Since the war, the mutate population had grown dramatically to the point where they were a serious threat to all travelers, day or night. Plato, the wisest member of the Family, believed the mutates were increasing by geometric progression, and he was eager to secure a live juvenile specimen for analysis.

Unfortunately, the only way to get one was to kill it.

The young giant pressed the Marlin to his right shoulder, sighted on the foremost mutate, and fired.

Struck in the head, the lead coyote was flipped backwards by the impact of the slug. Other members of the pack collided with it, causing momentary confusion.

Lone Elk opened up with the Winchester, levering off two shots in rapid succession, the sharp retorts producing two dead beasts.

Leaving six.

Blade was aiming at another onrushing form when Hickok moved around him. He held his fire, the Marlin still raised to provide cover if need be, but as he anticipated, his help wasn’t required.

The blond youth’s hands streaked those gleaming Colts from their holsters and twin shots sounded as one. Three times the gunman stroked each hammer, and after the six shots there were six twitching, dying mutates stretched out on the grass. Each one had been shot in the head between the eyes. Dead center between the eyes. Grinning, Hickok ambled toward the pack, ready to finish off any that tried to rise. None did.

Lone Elk glanced at Blade and said softly, “If he gets any faster he’ll have to change his name to lightning.” Then he looked at the gunman and declared, “You could have saved some for us.”

“I can’t help it if you’re as slow as molasses,” Hickok retorted, in the act of prodding each coyote with a toe.

“Don’t get smart with us, ding-a-ling. We know your secret,” Lone Elk said.

“What secret?”

“Your so-called quick draw is a trick done with mirrors.”

“Anytime you feel inclined to try and outdraw my mirrors, feel free to let me know.”

Lone Elk stepped forward to help check the bodies. “You’d shoot little ol’ me?” he asked innocently.

“Of course not. Oh, I might crease your head, but it’s so swelled up you’d never notice the difference.”

Blade surveyed the woods in case there were more mutates in hiding.

Nothing moved, and he relaxed a bit. “We’d better get going,” he urged.

“If there are scavengers in the area, they’re bound to have heard the shots.”

Hickok looked up and smirked. “There you go again, trying to take charge.”

“You can’t blame him,” Lone Elk said. “It’s in his veins. His dad is our Leader, after all.”

“And one day Mikey might follow in daddy’s footsteps,” the gunfighter joked.

“I have no intention of becoming the Leader of the Family,” Blade asserted stiffly. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“You can tell us until you’re blue in the face, pard, but we won’t believe you.”

“Why not?”

“Because we know you,” Hickok said. Satisfied the mutates were all dead, he began to reload the Magnums.

“And what does that mean?” Blade demanded.

“It means you’re a rotten liar. Deep down you really do want to become Leader some day.”

“You’re nuts.”

“Hey, Lone Elk agrees with me,” Hickok said, glancing at the Blackfoot.

“Don’t you?”

“Are you talking to me?” Lone Elk rejoined.

“No, I’m talkin’ to one of the blamed critters,” the gunman muttered, then raised his voice. “Of course I’m talkin’ to you, mutton head.”

“If you care to address me, from now on you’ll call me by my new name.”

“You want me to call you Geronimo?”

“Yes.”

Hickok paused, a cartridge in his left hand. “But you haven’t had your Naming yet.”

“So? I will, soon. And since Mike and you already have your new names, I want you to call me by mine.”

“Forget it, dimwit.”

“What harm can calling me by my new name do, yoyo?”

“Technically you don’t have a new name until after the ceremony, and I aim to abide by the rules until then.”

“Suit yourself, Nathan,” the stocky teen said, using the name bestowed on the gunman by his parents, and walked off.

“Of all the childish antics,” Hickok protested. He swung toward the giant. “What do you say?”

“I say we humor him. If he wants to be called Geronimo, it’s fine with me.”

“Some attitude for a future Leader.”

“If you keep bringing that up, you won’t have a future,” Blade chided and followed Geronimo.

Hickok trailed after them, still reloading. “Well, don’t expect me to break the rules. As far as I’m concerned, Lone Elk is Lone Elk until the Naming is over.”

“Do whatever you think is best,” Blade said.

“Besides, I still figure he’d make a better Percival.”

They traveled another mile and neared a hill with a bald crown. A hawk soared on the air currents to their right, and a pair of deer fled at their approach.

“I sure do like the outdoors,” Hickok remarked, his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. “Don’t you, Lone Elk?”

There was no answer.

“You’re serious about not talkin’ to me, aren’t you?” Hickok inquired.

There was still no answer.

“Fine. Suit yourself. See if I ever speak to you again.”

Blade grinned and stared at the crest. It would be a good spot to take a break and decide whether to continue or turn back. The heat was getting to him, and he wouldn’t mind heading for the Home with their goal unaccomplished. Once back, he could take a refreshing dip in the moat.

Minutes later they stepped from the trees and halted just below the rim.

“Let’s rest a bit,” Blade proposed.

“Sure, fearless Leader, whatever you want,” Hickok said, sitting down on a log. He studiously refrained from gazing at Geronimo.

“I’d like to take a vote. Do we head on or head home?” Blade asked them.

“It makes no difference to me,” Geronimo said.

“I couldn’t care less,” Hickok added.

“So the decision is mine,” Blade declared and moved toward the top of the hill for a view of the country beyond. If there was no sign of the castle, he’d return to the compound. Perhaps, after consulting the Founder’s diary once more and pinpointing the exact location, he might try to find it again one day—on a cooler day.

“Hey!” Geronimo suddenly yelled. “What’s that?”

Blade spun and saw his friend pointing skyward. He tilted his neck and spied something flying far overhead. At first he thought it was a hawk, until the glint of sunlight off a metallic surface demonstrated otherwise.

“It’s not a bird,” Hickok stated, rising.

“The thing appears to be made of metal,” Geronimo mentioned.

Stunned, Blade watched the object perform a tight circle hundreds of feet above them. Could it be an airplane? he wondered. Thinking of all the books dealing with aviation in the Family library and all the plane photographs he’d admired, he decided the object was far too small to be an aircraft.

“I hear a strange buzzing,” Geronimo announced.

Blade heard the sound, too, as if a million angry hornets were in flight en masse, and his brow knit in bewilderment. “Maybe we should try to shoot it down,” Hickok suggested.

“Why? It’s not trying to harm us,” Blade replied. “Unless it attacks, we leave it alone.”

“Yes, sir.”

The alien device swooped lower, revealing its shape.

With a start, Blade realized he’d been wrong. He distinguished a set of long, thin wings and the unmistakable contours of a tail assembly; he realized it was a plane, but the smallest one he’d ever seen. One of the books he’d read came to mind, a volume detailing how to construct and operate tiny aircraft known as model planes. If he wasn’t mistaken, the thing in the sky was a model plane. But it couldn’t be.

“It looks like a baby plane,” Hickok noted, apparently having the same train of thought as Blade.

“Such things don’t exist any more,” Geronimo said.

“Peepers don’t lie,” Hickok stated.

Buzzing even louder, the diminutive aircraft angled to the southeast and flew off.

Eager to see where it went, Blade hastened to the top of the hill and stared after it. His gaze strayed to the valley below and every fiber of his being tingled at the sight of the structures less than half a mile off.

“Bingo,” he said. “We’ve hit the jackpot.”

Hickok and Geronimo were on the crest in seconds.

“It’s the castle!” the gunman exclaimed.

“Or what’s left of it,” Geronimo amended.

From a distance, the castle appeared to be in a severe state of disrepair.

Windows were missing. One of the four turrents was damaged. Vines grew in profusion up the slate gray walls. A flock of starlings was flying above it, bearing eastward.

“I vote we check the place out,” Blade said.

“Count me in,” Geronimo agreed.

Hickok nodded. “I’ve always wanted to see a real castle.”

The three of them hastened down the far side of the hill into yet more forest, revitalized by their discovery.

Blade took the point, selecting the easiest route, bypassing the thickest brush and skirting clusters of large boulders. After traversing 50 feet, he looked at the ground and halted in astonishment.

Hickok almost bumped into the giant. “What the heck did you stop for?”

“This,” Blade said, indicating a well-worn trail leading deeper into the valley. The path wound past them to the northwest.

“So you found a game trail. Big deal.”

“Take a closer look,” Blade advised.

The gunfighter squatted and peered at a strip of bare earth, his eyes widening when he recognized the distinct impression of a shoe. “Someone has used this trail recently.”

“Within the past day or two,” Geronimo said.

“Stay alert,” Blade instructed them. They followed the path until they arrived at the border of a spacious meadow. Blade stopped short again, shocked by the unexpected.

Corn, wheat, oats and other crops covered the eastern half of the meadow, aligned in separate plots. From the hill, the meadow had been partly obscured by the trees, and the crops tended to blend into the surrounding vegetation. No one would ever suspect the land had been tilled unless they came right up on it.

“Someone lives in this valley,” Hickok said.

“In the castle,” Geronimo speculated.

“There’s enough there to feed a hundred people,” Blade noted. “Maybe we’ve stumbled on a pocket of survivors.”

“Let’s hope they’re friendly,” Hickok stated. Blade led them across the meadow. Halfway to the other side ther trail broadened, becoming a grassy road. Ruts formed by heavy wagon wheels lined the soil, and there were many more footprints in the intermittent bare spots. Except these prints were of naked feet.

“What do you make of it, pard?” Hickok asked when they halted to examine the tracks.

“Beats me,” Blade said. He glanced at Geronimo, who was kneeling and lightly touching the impressions. “You’re the tracking expert. What can you tell us?”

“It’s hard to determine precise numbers because so many have passed by, but I’d guess that ten to twenty people use this road on a regular basis, at least once a day. And the freshest wagon ruts were made this morning.”

“This morning?” Blade repeated, scanning the meadow. “Then they must still be close by.” He had the oddest feeling that the three of them were being watched, but by whom was anyone’s guess.

“We’d be smart to take cover,” Hickok suggested.

“No. If we did, these people might get the wrong idea and think we’re here to harm them. We’ll stay out in the open and demonstrate they have nothing to be afraid of.”

“And what if they’re the ones who want to harm us?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

The gunman sighed. “Don’t take this personal, but you’re too trusting sometimes. Not everyone is as kind and decent as the folks at the Home.”

Suddenly, from the woods to the south, arose harsh, mocking laughter.