Armageddon Run

Chapter Two

He couldn’t get the images out of his mind.

No matter how hard he tried.

All he kept seeing, repeating over and over again, were vivid scenes of death and destruction. A tremendous battle, the ultimate conflict between good and evil. Thousands upon thousands died on both sides, the innocent as well as the guilty.

And it was all his fault.

He had formulated the initial plan, and set the wheels of combat in motion. Whatever happened next, the outcome would be on his shoulders.

Maybe he should have waited for the Doktor to make the next move.

Maybe he should have upgraded the fortifications protecting the Home and waited for the Doktor to show up.

“Plato, it’s getting late.”

Plato sighed and shook his head, clearing the cobwebs, his reverie shattered. “What did you say?” he absently asked.

The speaker was standing on the bank of the moat in the northwestern corner of the 30-acre plot known as the Home. The moat was a stream, diverted under the northwestern corner of the 20-foot-high brick walls surrounding the Home. The stream was channeled along the base of the inside of the walls, providing a secondary line of defense as well as the essential water for the inhabitants of the Home, the descendants of followers of a wealthy survivalist named Kurt Carpenter. They called themselves the Family, and at the moment, their aged Leader, Plato, was supervising a special project. The stream entered the Home through an aqueduct in the northwestern corner, with half of the water flowing to the south and the remaining volume flowing to the east. Eight-foot-deep trenches carried the water along the four walls until they merged in the southeastern corner and exited the Home via another aqueduct. In addition to the walls and the moat, strands of barbed wire were strung all across the top of the wall to impede potential attackers. Of the six huge concrete blocks Kurt Carpenter had had constructed on the property, one of them was a well-stocked armory. Carpenter had known civilization would revert to bestial levels after World War III, and he had wanted his beloved Family to be prepared to repel any assault on the Home. He had tried to project probabilities and cover every contingency.

But he had left one weak spot.

Actually, two.

Plato stared at the stream while seated on a small boulder, watching the water rush past, wondering why Carpenter hadn’t thought to install a screen or grid over the aqueducts to prevent anyone or anything from gaining entry to the Home by swimming through them.

Live and learn.

Twice the Family had been attacked inside the compound, and it wasn’t until after the second attack that Blade had deduced the faulty link in the Family’s armor. First, some time back, a mutated frog had leaped from the moat and savagely assailed some nearby Family members. Then, only recently, two of the nefarious Doktor’s deadly genetic assassins had invaded the Home. One of them had let it slip that they had gotten into the Home by swimming. It didn’t require a genius to ascertain their method.

Plato glanced at the four men in the moat near the aqueduct. They were putting the finishing touches on the large screen they had attached to the interior aqueduct opening.

“It’s getting late,” the speaker on the bank reiterated. “It will be dark soon. Should we wait until morning to put the other screen on the southeastern aqueduct?”

Plato looked at the speaker, a tall man with blue eyes and short blond hair. He wore a brown shirt and buckskin pants, as well as the traditional Family footwear: moccasins. Strapped to his waist was a long broadsword, just one of the many unusual and exotic weapons Kurt Carpenter had stocked in the Family armory. Plato grinned. “The aqueducts haven’t had a screen on them in the one hundred years since World War Three,” he said. “One more night won’t hurt. Yes, we’ll wait until daylight to complete our task, Spartacus.”

Spartacus nodded. “Wrap it up!” he shouted to the four men in the moat. “We’ll be doing the second one tomorrow.” He faced Plato, noting the Leader’s haggard appearance and the stringy condition of Plato’s long gray hair and beard. Plato’s clothes, kept in spotless condition by his wife, Nadine, consisted of faded tan trousers and a buckskin shirt. “What were you thinking about just now?” he inquired.

“Nothing much,” Plato said evasively.

“Come on,” Spartacus rejoined. “I’ve seen that look before. You’re worried about Blade and the others, right?”

Plato sighed and frowned. “Of course.”

“Try not to think about it,” Spartacus advised.

“If only it were so easy,” Plato said wearily.

“You did what you had to do,” Spartacus pointed out.

“That’s what I keep telling myself,” Plato said. “But it doesn’t seem to help much.”

“Blade is a Warrior,” Spartacus noted. “He knew what he was getting into. He knows the risks involved. It’s all part of being a Warrior.”

Plato absently nodded. A Warrior.

The Founder of the Home, Kurt Carpenter, had been a firm believer in social equality. To that end, he had instituted a practice whereby each and every Family member would receive an official title. Whether it was Tiller, Empath, Warrior, or one of the others, every Family member would be assured equal social footing. Of the over 6 dozen Family members now alive, 15 had been selected as Warriors, the defenders of the Home and the protectors of the Family. The 15 were divided into 5 Triads of 3 Warriors apiece. These 5 Triads were known as Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Omega, and Zulu. Each Triad had a head or leader, but the head of Alpha Triad, Blade, was the chief Warrior, responsible for the Home’s security. Blade, Hickok, and Geronimo comprised Alpha Triad, and since they and Beta Triad were currently away from the Home, Spartacus, as the head of Gamma Triad, had become the chief Warrior in their absence.

Spartacus walked over to Plato and gently placed his right hand on Plato’s narrow shoulder. He had never seen the Family’s Leader look so sad. “Cheer up!” he stated as happily as he could. “Everything will work out.”

“I hope so,” Plato said softly.

“Hey! What’s the matter? Aren’t you the one who is always telling us to have faith?”

Plato gazed up at Spartacus. “If it’s spiritual enthusiasm you want, I suggest you see Joshua.”

“I haven’t seen Joshua around lately,” Spartacus noted.

“Neither have I, come to think of it,” Plato said thoughtfully.

“So what’s got you so down in the dumps?” Spartacus said, pressing the issue. “The senility?” he queried tactlessly.

“It has been affecting me greatly of late,” Plato divulged. “If only we could find a cure…”

A mysterious form of premature senility had befallen the Family. The Family records indicated that each previous generation had had a shorter life expectancy than the one before it. Some of the Family Elders were now showing unmistakable symptoms of the senility, and Plato was one of them. Although not quite 50 years of age, Plato looked the way a 70-year-old man would have looked in the days before World War III.

“You’ll find a cure,” Spartacus predicted. “With all that medical and scientific equipment Blade and Geranimo brought back from Kalispell, and the help you’re getting from Gremlin, you should find a cure real soon.”

“Those four hardbound notebooks Yama found at the Citadel are proving to be of more help than the scientific instruments,” Plato noted.

He had sent Yama, one of the Warriors from Beta Triad, on a spying mission to the Cheyenne Citadel. While there, Yama had managed to steal four notebooks belonging to the Doktor. He’d also rescued one of the Doktor’s genetically engineered creations, Lynx, from certain death. Before they had fled the Citadel, Yama and Lynx had destroyed the Doktor’s headquarters.

“What did you find in those notebooks?” Spartacus asked.

“Much of it is over our heads,” Plato replied, “but we are still in the process of examining them. They’re written in the Doktor’s own longhand, and he doesn’t have the most legible writing in the world. A lot of the contents concern highly technical medical and scientific experiments and data.”

“Are the rumors I hear true?” Spartacus inquired. “About the Doktor being so old?”

Plato’s brow furrowed and he scratched his neck. “If the dates in the notebooks are correct,” he said slowly, “then the Doktor is one hundred and twenty-seven years old.”

“Is it possible? How could he be that old? He would have been alive before World War Three started.”

“The Elders have researched the matter thoroughly,” Plato detailed.

“We’ve consulted pertinent books in the library.” One of the concrete blocks was devoted entirely to housing the library Kurt Carpenter had amassed for his followers, hundreds of thousands of books on every conceivable subject. “We discovered references to a number of individuals who lived beyond the century mark before World War Three. True, they were the exception rather than the rule. But the records conclusively prove that living to a hundred, or beyond, is possible. The Doktor seems to have devoted considerable energy and his brilliant mind to discovering a viable way of achieving that goal. Apparently, before the war, some scientists had discovered biochemical causes for aging. They had identified two substances in particular, oxyradicals and peroxide, as crucial to the aging process. These substances are formed from oxygen. They’re emitted by the red blood cells in the body as the cells carry oxygen through our system.

Nature requires us to use oxygen for energy, but it turns against us in our later years. When we’re young and healthy, like you, the body is able to resist the onslaught of the oxyradicals and the peroxide. But when we’re older, the oxyradicals and peroxide gain the upper hand by causing the destruction of our red blood cells. Are you following me on this?”

“Uhhhh, not really,” Spartacus confessed.

“Well, suffice it to say the Doktor hit upon a technique to inhibit the development of the oxyradicals and the peroxide, thereby drastically reducing the rate of which he aged.”

“What kind of technique?” Spartacus asked, his curiosity aroused.

“Transfusions,” Plato answered, “in conjunction with a unique chemical he synthesized.”

“Transfusions?” Spartacus repeated. “Isn’t that where you take the blood from one person and give it to another?”

“Precisely. And in the Doktor’s case, he uses the blood of infants.”

Spartacus grimaced in revulsion. “Babies? You mean he uses blood from babies?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Plato confirmed. “His notebooks indicate he has used the blood of thousands of babies over the decades.”

“Dear Spirit! Why?”

“By having regular transfusions, and using only the blood from healthy, compatible infants, the Doktor is able to prevent the oxyradicals and peroxide from increasing in his own system and triggering the aging process. The longer he lives, the more frequently he must have the transfusions. The notebooks reveal he starts to age if he neglects the transfusions, although the process is partially reversible if caught in time.”

Plato paused. “So, to answer your earlier questions, yes, I do believe it is possible for the Doktor to be one hundred and twenty-seven years old.”

Spartacus patted the hilt of his broadsword. “I wish I was with Blade and the others!” he declared. “I’d like to find this Doktor on the business end of my sword.”

“The use of the infants is not the only horror we’ve discovered,” Plato commented.

“There’s more?”

“We’re working on one notebook in particular, striving to decipher the writing,” Plato said. “But if the information we’ve found so far holds up, there is a definite link between the Doktor and the mutates. Probably the green clouds as well.”

The mutates were pus-covered, perpetually ravenous mammals, reptiles, and amphibians. They infested the countryside, stalking and slaying any living thing they encountered. No one knew what caused their condition, nor did anyone know the origin of the green chemical clouds.

The clouds appeared out of nowhere, drifting over the landscape, and any person unfortunate enough to be covered by a cloud, to be caught by its eerie, opaque fog, was never seen again.

“Is there anything the Doktor isn’t involved with?” Spartacus asked.

“We’ll know more after we have finished analyzing the four notebooks,” Plato said. “We’ve gleaned considerable knowledge concerning the Doktor’s research and work with genetics. In the realm of genetic engineering, he’s phenomenal. Before World War Three, scientists were able to produce babies from a test-tube. They even designated them test-tube babies, and would implant them in a female’s womb—”

“Really?” Spartacus marveled.

“Really. The Doktor has refined their technique.

He is capable of tampering with a human embryo in a test-tube, of somehow altering the genetic code and creating mutants like Lynx and Gremlin, and the monstrosities in the Doktor’s own Genetic Research Division.” Plato shook his head. “If the Doktor weren’t so unspeakably wicked, I could readily admire the man and his sensational accomplishments.’’

“No one should be allowed to fiddle with nature,” Spartacus opined.

“The Spirit designed us a certain way, and we should leave well enough alone.”

“We in the Family may believe that,” Plato stated, “but the Doktor obviously doesn’t, nor did many in the scientific community before the war. Some of them would perform any type of research for money. Money talked.”

“Talked?” Spartacus appeared puzzled. “I thought their money was made from paper and metal?”

“Just a quaint colloquialism from prewar times,” Plato explained. “A figure of speech, they called it.”

“Women have figures,” Spartacus retorted playfully. “Speech has style.”

“Why, Spartacus!” Plato said, genuinely impressed. “Such eloquence! I’d hardly expect it from you.”

“I guess some of my schoolteachers must have rubbed off on me.”

Spartacus grinned. “At least, one of my teachers.”

Seven of the Family Elders shared in the responsibility of training the young children, each Elder instructing in areas in which he or she enjoyed expertise. Plato was one of those teachers.

“I wonder what it was like,” Spartacus continued thoughtfully.

“What what was like?” Plato asked.

“Living in a world where they used money. From what I’ve read, money was responsible for a lot of greed and sorrow and even war.’’

“The root of all evil, they called it.” Plato turned and watched several of the children playing tag 30 yards away. “Men and women committed all manner of immoral and wicked acts to acquire monetary wealth.”

“It’s a good thing the Family doesn’t use money,” Spartacus stated.

“We’re fortunate. With only slightly over six dozen members, the Family is small enough so that we don’t need it. Each of us performs our work to the best of our ability, and we all share in the fruits of the Tillers’

efforts,” Plato said.

“Wasn’t our system called Communism before the Big Blast?”

Spartacus asked, referring to World War III by the slang expression the majority of the Family used.

“Our system is called sharing,” Plato expounded. “Any resemblance to Communism, the tyrannical scourge of the planet, is purely superficial. If the Family were larger, we would require an efficient economic system.

Capitalism was the best, but even Capitalism is only as good as the Capitalists practicing it.”

“What was wrong with Communism?” Spartacus queried.

“Think back to your history studies,” Plato directed. “Remember how it was before the war erupted. Global Communism was on the verge of collapse. Communism stifles individual initiative, and contains a major, fatal flaw. No economic system can survive when it forces the worker to become a slave to the idler. Also, the Soviet Communists, and the other Communist Governments, were determined atheists. No social system that denies the reality of the Spirit can long survive. I firmly believe that the Communists realized their system was close to falling apart, that it was disintegrating under their very noses, and they pressed the nuclear button as much in desperation as for any other reason. They probably believed the propaganda disseminated by both sides, that a nuclear conflict was survivable. The ignorant, destructive idiots!”

“I’ve got another question,” Spartacus declared.

“What is it?” Plato was pleasantly surprised by this behavior of Spartacus. He had erroneously assumed Spartacus was a lot like Hickok: living for the moment with nary a thought about profound matters.

“You mentioned that the Communists denied the Spirit, and that reminded me of something I’ve wanted to ask for some time, but kept forgetting to bring up. We, the Family, call the Creative Force the Spirit.

In many of the books in the library, I’ve noticed that before the Big Blast they called the Spirit by another name. They usually used the term God.

So how come we use the Spirit instead of God?”

“You amaze me!” Plato was sincerely surprised by this unexpected philosophical interest of Spartacus. “Your question is easily answered.

You’re right in that the prewar society did use the designation God, or Lord, for the First Source. Unfortunately, the terms lacked any special significance to the average user. They were commonly taken in vain. The term God was routinely prostituted by incorporation into a standard curse word, ‘goddamn.’ Some people could use the word six times in a seven-word sentence. Our Founder was a religious man, and this verbal violation of the special relationship existing between Man and Maker revolted him. He urged the Family to avoid using the crude slang, and to adopt instead the term Spirit. To this day, the Family usually employs the word Spirit when referring to the Divine Presence.”

“So that explains it,” Spartacus said.

Plato stood and stretched. “I’d best be getting along. Nadine will have my supper waiting, and she can become quite cross if I’m detained.”

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Spartacus stated. “Don’t worry about the guard schedules. I have everything worked out, which Triad is supposed to be on duty and when.”

“You’re doing a superb job. Blade will be proud of you.” Plato smiled.

“And thank you for the stimulating conversation. It has perked me right up!”

“My pleasure,” Spartacus said, satisfied with himself. He had wanted to rouse Plato from his depression, and he knew there were few pursuits Plato relished more than an invigorating chat. He watched the Family’s adored Leader shuffle off toward his cabin. The current situation had to be rough on the old man. Plato loved Blade as though he were his own son, and now Blade was hundreds of miles from the Home in northwestern Minnesota, preparing to fight the Doktor to the death.

Spartacus gazed up at the darkening sky, noting the first visible stars.

What was Blade doing at this very moment? he wondered.