Spartan Run

CHAPTER THREE

Blade faced front, expecting to see another genetic deviate. Instead, stepping onto the highway from the forest to the west was a thin man wearing scruffy clothing, a lever-action rifle pressed to his right shoulder.

Approximately 40 yards separated the SEAL from the rifleman.

“Oh, no!” Erica Johnson cried.

The thin man aimed at the van’s windshield and fired.

Despite knowing the transport was bulletproof, Blade flinched when the round struck, the resounding smack and the shrill whine of the ricochet startlingly loud. He tramped on the gas and slanted toward the rifleman;

“Let’s teach this guy some manners,” he commented.

The man had levered another bullet into the chamber and was taking aim again.

“Don’t hurt him!” Erica declared. “Please!”

“Why not?” Blade demanded, and saw the man shoot. He heard a piercing screech as the slug was deflected and kept his foot down, “I know him.”

“Is he always this friendly to strangers?” Blade asked.

“Please! Slow down!”

The giant ignored her. He glanced at Rikki and said, “Get ready,” then closed on the rifleman.

“Please!” Erica pleaded.

Exercising commendable self-control, the thin man managed to get off one more shot. He stood in the highway until almost the last instant, working the lever, then leaped to the side.

Which served as Blade’s cue. He applied his right foot to the brake and held onto the wheel with all of his strength to prevent the SEAL from swerving. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed Rikki opening the passenger door, a small silver object in the martial artist’s hand. A moment later the man in black vaulted from the vehicle.

Blade glanced in the mirror and witnessed the brief confrontation. The rifleman never stood a chance.

In a fluid, acrobatic movement Rikki landed and rolled, sweeping erect as the thin man tried to get a bead on him. His right arm flashed downward and the glittering metal object, a seven-pointed shuriken, whizzed through the air and ripped into the rifleman’s left forearm. The man uttered an agonized expletive, dropped the rifle, and held his wounded arm next to his chest, gaping at the imbedded throwing star and blood seeping from the laceration.

The SEAL came to a halt. Blade shifted and killed the engine, then turned. “Teucer, give me the Commando.”

About to leap, out, the bowman nodded and shifted so he could reach back to the rear storage, where their provisions were piled, and grab the Commando Arms Carbine. “Here,” he said, and gave the weapon to the giant.

Blade slid out, working the cocking handle and verifying the 90-shot magazine was securely in place. Somewhat resembling the ancient Thompsons, the Commando had been modified by the Family Gunsmiths to function on full automatic. Although rather heavy as submachine guns went, in his massive arms the Commando was as light as the proverbial feather. He strolled around the SEAL.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was standing close to the rifleman, the katana out and pointed at the man’s chest.

The thin man was doing a marvelous imitation of a tree.

“Who are you?” Blade demanded, cradling the Commando in his right arm.

“I can answer that,” volunteered Erica to his rear, “his same is Rick Grennell. He’s a neighbor of ours.”

“A real friendly sort, I take it?”

Johnson didn’t respond.

The giant walked to within a yard of the man. He noticed blatant fear in Grennell’s eyes and his estimation of the rifleman lowered.

Teucer and the woman joined them.

“Erica!” Grennell exclaimed. “How did these bastards capture you?”

“I’m not their prisoner, Rick.”

“You’re not?”

“No. These men saved me from a mutation. They were giving me a ride to the farm.”

Grennell looked at each of the Warriors in evident perplexity. “They were?”

“Why did you shoot at us?” Blade inquired.

“I heard Erica scream and was coming after her. When your vehicle came into view, I naturally assumed you must be responsible. I figured you had harmed her.”

“What were you doing in this area?” Blade asked.

“Hunting.”

“Did you know Erica was nearby?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then how did you know she was the one who screamed?”

Grennell blinked a few times. “I, uh, I’ve known her since we were kids.

I’d know her voice anywhere.”

“Do tell,” Blade said, and nodded at the man’s arm. “We’ll bandage that for you.”

“No. it’s not necessary,” Grennell responded. “I’ll walk home and let my sister take care of it.”

“We insist,” Blade stated, and turned to Rikki. “Would you get the medicine bag from the SEAL?”

“Certainly.” The martial artist returned the katana to its scabbard and ran off.

Grennell winced and stared at his arm. “What is this thing?”

“A shuriken,” Blade said.

“Never heard of it. The damn thing flew too fast to follow. Where did the runt learn to throw like that?”

“He’s practiced for years,” Blade revealed. “And I wouldn’t call him a runt to his face if I were you.”

“Why not? Will he kick my ass?” Grennell replied caustically.

“No,” Blade said softly. “I will.”

Teucer picked up the rifle. “This is a Martin 30-30,” he commented.

“Where did you find the gun, Rick?” Erica asked. “You know as well as I do that owning a firearm is an offense punishable by death. Our Spartan masters don’t permit Helots to own guns.”

“It’s been in my family for generations. Usually we keep it hidden in the root cellar and only take it out on very special occasions.”

“And you were hunting with it?” Erica asked, her tone conveying marked doubt.

“We wanted some venison,” Grennell said.

Blade regarded the man coldly. Although he lacked proof, he suspected Grennell was completely untrustworthy. An indefinable aura of deception and menace lurked just below the man’s superficial exterior. He noticed the way Grennell’s shifty dark eyes lingered on Erica’s form, and he deduced a possible motive for the man’s behavior and presence. The thought angered him. “You say this guy is a neighbor of yours?” he asked the woman.

“Yeah. His family lives four miles southwest of us.”

“How trustworthy is he?”

“In what respect?”

“If we were to let him go, would he run to the Spartans and inform them about us?”

Erica glanced at the thin man, her brow knit. “I don’t think so.”

“You know I wouldn’t,” Grennell asserted.

“But there is a reward for any information about strangers,” Erica divulged. “Any Helot who tells the Spartans will receive an extra food ration for a year.”

“Now there’s incentive if ever I heard it,” Teucer joked.

“It is,” Erica stated. “Most Helots have a hard time meeting their alloted quota, so there’s very little grain, vegetables, and fruit left over for their own consumption. An extra food ration can mean the difference between going hungry and a full stomach.”

Blade watched Grennell surreptitiously stare at the woman’s prominent breasts, and experienced a keen loathing for the man. He was tempted to slug Grennell in the mouth on general principles, but footsteps signaled the timely arrival of the Family’s preeminent practitioner of the martial way of life.

“Here’s the medicine bag,” Rikki announced, and stepped in front of the thin man. Slung over his left shoulder was a brown leather pouch. He gingerly inspected the wound. “The blood flow is already diminishing, which is a good sign. It means the shuriken didn’t slice a major artery or vein.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“I’m a Warrior, not a Healer. But I have considerable experience in administering herbal remedies and treating the types of injuries sustained in battle. On many an occasion I’ve assisted the Healers so I could hone my medical skills.”

“But you’re not a doctor?”

“No.”

“Are these Healers doctors?”

“Not in the sense you intend. Our Healers don’t rely on artificial substances.”

Grennell glanced at the giant. “I’d really prefer to have my sister take care of my arm. She’s a whiz with peroxide and a bandage.”

“We’ll bandage you,” Blade insisted. “Go ahead, Rikki.”

The man in black lightly touched his fingertips to the exposed part of the shuriken. Three of the silver points stuck out an inch above the skin.

“This will sting for a bit,” he cautioned.

“What will?”

Rikki suddenly gave a sharp wrench, pulling the shuriken loose. Blood dripped from the throwing star.

Grennell stiffened and gasped, his mouth opening to screech, but he caught himself and scowled. “Damn! Sting, my ass! That hurt like hell.”

“You must learn to control discomfort. Use your pain to mold your character.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

The small man knelt and deposited the medicine bag in front of him.

He lifted the flap and rooted inside. “I’m talking about self-control, the acme of human virtues. For a person who has perfected self-control, all things are possible. For a person lacking self-control, all pursuits of spiritual consequence are impossible. When persons have self-control, they are the masters of their destiny.” He paused to remove a handful of large leaves. “Pain, for instance, can be dominated and channeled. Instead of resisting it, you can use self-control to embrace the discomfort and subdue it.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea what you mean,” Grennell said.

“Cultivate genuine faith and give yourself a few hundred years. The answer will come to you.”

“You’re downright weird.”

Blade chuckled and rotated to scan the woods lining the highway.

“Hurry up, Rikki,” he directed. “I want to get moving.”

“As you wish.”

Teucer surveyed the forest. “What’s the rush?”

“I don’t like standing out in the open like this,” Blade responded. He didn’t bother to add that deep down he felt uneasy, felt as if unseen eyes were gazing upon them. After so many years of living on the edge, of constantly confronting the enemies of the Family and the Federation, he had learned to rely on his instincts, and his instincts now told him that something was amiss.

“Is anything wrong?” Erica asked.

“No,” Blade said.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was busy grinding the leaves into powder using a small bowl and pumice stone he’d removed from the pouch.

“Were you alone?” Blade queried, his flinty eyes on Grennell.

The thin man hesitated, then nodded vigorously. “Yep. Sure was.”

Blade took hold of the woman’s elbow. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?” Erica inquired as the giant pulled her away from the others.

“It’s best if your neighbor doesn’t hear us,” Blade said, and led her a distance of 12 feet. He looked at Grennell, who stared suspiciously at them, and spoke in a hushed tone. “Tell me the truth. Is he a close friend of yours?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Do you even like him?”

“I wouldn’t say that either.”

“Then why did you stop me from running him down?”

“He’s a neighbor. My parents and his parents are best friends. I never liked him much because he’s always been more interested in my body instead of me. Once, about seven years ago, I went to a barn dance with him to please my folks. He spent the whole night trying to slip his fingers under my dress. The man is a crud,” Erica stated with obvious sincerity.

“Does he have any brothers or sisters?”

“Yep. Two brothers. Both younger than him.”

Blade observed Rikki adding water from a canteen to the crushed leaves. “Do you buy his story about being out here hunting?”

“It’s possible.”

“It’s also possible he saw you leave your farm.”

“What are you implying?”

“You’re no dummy. You figure it out,” Blade commented.

The woman gazed thoughtfully at her neighbor.

“One more thing,” Blade said. “Why would you go for a walk without a weapon? Isn’t that a bit risky with mutations roaming about?”

“The only weapons Helots are allowed to use are knives, and I just forgot mine. Besides, I wasn’t planning on going more than a mile or two.

And the Spartans have done a fine job of killing off most of the monsters in this region. They slay every mutant they come across.”

“I see,” Blade responded. Now he knew they were both lying. He had to decide whether to turn around and leave before the trouble began or to carry the mission through to the end. As the head Warrior and an official representative of the Federation he had no choice. He must contact the Spartans.

Damn.

Just once he’d like to be sent on an easy run!