Dakota Run

Chapter Eight

The Dead Zone certainly lived up to its reputation.

In all his travels, in all his experience, Geronimo had never encountered any terrain as devoid of life, any geographical area so utterly barren and destitute.

It was uncanny, almost as if he’d been transported to a landscape on another planet.

Vegetation was completely absent. Wildlife was nonexistent. Even the breeze seemed sluggish and abnormally warm. The earth was a reddish color and unnaturally fine.

How could anything live in such a sterile habitat?

The Legion patrol was gathered on top of a large hill, the riders allowing their weary mounts a brief rest.

“I don’t see any sign of pursuit,” Hamlin noted. “Do you?” he asked Kilrane.

Kilrane was studying the plain below them. “None,” he agreed.

“They must have given up!” Hamlin elated. “They knew they couldn’t catch us!”

“Or they had accomplished their purpose and wisely withdrew,” Kilrane stated.

“What do you mean?” Hamlin inquired.

“They may figure we’re far enough into the Dead Zone to accomplish their goal,” Kilrane elaborated. “We must be a good fifteen miles into this wasteland.”

“So what now?” Cynthia queried.

Geronimo was wondering about the same subject. He mentally attempted to envision their approximate location. He knew the Cavalry and the Legion occupied the eastern half of South Dakota, dividing it between them with the Cavalry controlling the eastern section and the Legion the western part. They were still in Cavalry territory, somewhere in the northern portion. He tried to recall the map of South Dakota he’d seen while paging through the atlas on the trip to Montana. Strange. He couldn’t remember any important military or civilian targets in this region. Why had it sustained a direct hit from a nuclear weapon? Maybe it was another miss. From records and journals kept immediately after the war, and from the data acquired since commencing Alpha Triad’s extended travels, the Family knew many primary military and civilian targets had been spared direct hits during the Third World War. Other areas, lacking any major significance, had been struck. A peculiar paradox, explained away by one of the Family Elders who suggested that the incoming missiles hadn’t been as accurate as the other side had boasted. It was entirely feasible that a missile aimed at, say, a missile silo in North Dakota might have strayed a few hundred miles and instead obliterated a grazing herd of pronghorn antelope in South Dakota. When dealing in distances of thousands and thousands of miles, any slight deviation in the missile’s trajectory would negate a direct hit and result in a miss of gigantic proportions. The history books in the Family library also mentioned a disturbing number of disastrous high-technology-related accidents in the years before the war, clearly indicating that humankind’s vaunted ingenuity had been an infinitesimal speck compared to its exaggerated ego.

“Maybe we should head southwest,” Hamlin was suggesting. “We’d get to Pierre a lot faster if we made a beeline for it.”

“I was thinking along the same lines,” Kilrane said. “The Cavalry might anticipate our move and attempt to cut us off, but it can’t be helped. We can’t remain in the Dead Zone. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”

“Do you see that?” one of the other riders asked, pointing to the west.

Geronimo swiveled, surprised at the sight.

A mile or two distant towered a huge conical mound, rearing up several hundred feet from the ground. The mound was massive, staggering the senses. Some low clouds seemed to be brushing the top of the cone.

“What the hell is that?” Hamlin inquired in awe.

“Maybe it’s where the missile or bomb struck?” Cynthia suggested.

“No,” Geronimo mentioned. “They left gaping holes, not the other way around. Some force pushed that mound up from within.”

“Could it be a…” Hamlin paused, searching for the right word.

“Volcano?” Geronimo guessed, and Hamlin nodded. Geronimo shook his head. “I never heard of any volcanoes in South Dakota.”

“Look!” Cynthia cried. “At the top of the mound!”

Geronimo saw it, and his skin suddenly tingled, goosebumps all over his arms.

Some… thing… was moving along the rim of the cone. Details were indistinct because of the great range involved, but whatever the creature was, it appeared large and oddly menacing.

“L… L… Let’s get out of here!” Hamlin stuttered, his fright readily apparent.

“Let’s go!” Kilrane barked, sweeping his left arm toward the southwest.

Geronimo kept the big black close to the Palomino as they descended the hill and galloped across the plain, great clouds of red dust billowing behind them.

What was that thing? Geronimo’s mind drifted as he rode, pondering the drastically altered nature of the environment and the ecology since the Big Blast. The so-called experts had failed to accurately predict the devastating consequences mega-doses of radiation and toxic chemicals would wreak on the organisms affected. Diligent research had proven radiation induced bizarre mutations. Combined with the unknown chemical elements, it was no wonder the land was crawling with deviate life forms. There were mutates everywhere. Deadly opaque green clouds proliferated; one such cloud had killed the Founder of the Home, Kurt Carpenter. And to top it off, the Family had fought other recurrent horrors, including rare cases of giantism restricted to insects or their close kin. Who knew what else lurked out there? As Plato had once noted, all it would take would be two similar mutations mating and the world could see the rise of a new species unheralded in its ferocity and adaptability. If this ever happened, it could well signal the death knell for the human race on planet earth.

Geronimo’s attention was arrested by an enormous hole off to the right, measuring at least thirty feet in diameter.

There was movement in the center of the hole.

Geronimo tried to focus on the gaping cavity, finding the task difficult with the big black running all out. There seemed to be two stick-like affairs waving wildly in the middle of the aperture. They displayed a pale reddish color, the same as the big object seen on the mound.

What in the world was it?

Geronimo noticed Kilrane watching the sticks. “Do you see them?”

Geronimo called.

Kilrane nodded.

“Any idea what they are?”

Kilrane shook his head.

Cynthia was also staring at the hole, her face markedly pale, her slim hands clinging to Kilrane’s broad shoulders.

I wish he’d placed her up behind me, Geronimo mused, feeling slightly jealous. He found himself experiencing a strong attraction toward Cynthia and resented this forced intrusion on their budding relationship.

A series of low hills rose ahead of the racing patrol. Kilrane led them up one side and down the other, the horses flying, the dust clouds rising behind their passage.

Another hole formed directly in front of them.

Kilrane turned the Palomino to the left, opting to circumvent the crater. The majority of the patrol cued on his lead.

Except for two.

This duo was at the rear of the column. The choking, blinding dust raised by the others obscured their vision, preventing them from realizing the main body of the patrol had veered to the left until it was too late.

Geronimo heard screams and shouts and looked over his right shoulder in time to observe the two riders plunge over the lip of the crater and vanish from view.

Kilrane missed seeing the duo drop into the hole, but he did hear the piercing shrieks of agony and terror that immediately followed. He brought the sweaty Palomino to an abrupt stop. “What was that?” he demanded, surveying the area.

Geronimo pointed at the shadowy cavity. “Two of your men just fell in.”

“What?” Kilrane goaded the Palomino toward the hole, the strapping stallion seemingly reluctant to comply. The horse tossed its head, its ears laid flat, and balked, forcing Kilrane to forcefully exhort his mount to achieve obedience.

Geronimo, despite an overpowering premonition of impending danger, stayed with Kilrane. Hamlin, visibly scared, stayed a few feet behind them.

The remainder of the patrol hung back, some of them experiencing difficulty controlling their plunging steeds.

“Where the hell are they?” Kilrane asked, poised at the edge of the opening.

Geronimo examined the crater, more mystified than ever. This hole, like the first, was approximately thirty feet in diameter at the top. The cavity tapered toward the center and ended with a dark hole, about ten feet in circumference, at the bottom of the pit. The sides of the crater were smooth, evincing a neatly excavated appearance.

There was no sign of the two Legionnaires.

“I don’t get it,” Hamlin said. “What’d they do? Fall in…” He paused, petrified.

A pair of red-hued rods rose from the black depths of the pit and began swaying back and forth.

“I don’t like this,” Kilrane hissed between clenched teeth. “I have a gut feeling we’d better make tracks, and pronto!”

“Hold it!” Geronimo barked, keeping his eyes peeled on those red rods.

Kilrane, about to turn the Palomino, quizzically gazed at Geronimo.

“My weapons,” Geronimo stated.

“Your what?” Hamlin snapped. “Who do you think you are? In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re our prisoner, fool!”

Kilrane glanced at the ominous hole. The red rods had disappeared.

“Give him his arms,” he ordered.

“Do what?” Hamlin objected, peeved. “Since when do we allow prisoners to have their weapons?”

“Since I just said so,” Kilrane countered, his tone low and threatening.

“I don’t have time to argue, my friend. Give them to him now!”

Hamlin, anger creasing his features, tossed the Marlin to Geronimo and handed him the Arminius and the tomahawk.

“Thank you,” Geronimo said, feeling a surge of confidence. If they were attacked now, at least he’d have a chance to defend himself and protect Cynthia. He looked into Kilrane’s blue eyes. “I owe you one.”

“I hope I live long enough to collect,” Kilrane muttered. He pressed his legs against the Palomino’s sides and rapidly brought the horse to a gallop.

The men in Kilrane’s patrol closed in around him, packing together in a dense mass, their flagging morale bolstered by their proximity to their leader.

Geronimo was watching Cynthia. Her ordeal was catching up with her.

She was slumped against

Kilrane, fatigued to the point of exhaustion.

Another mile along and they encountered a third crater.

Kilrane gave this one a wide berth, swinging his patrol to the left again, always bearing to the southwest.

“You know,” Hamlin announced after they passed the third hole, “this ain’t so bad. Not too much longer and we’ll be rid of this damn place!”

Geronimo, staring ahead, realized the small man had spoken too soon.

“Look!” someone shouted. “Up ahead!”

The entire patrol slowed, then halted, stunned by the sight in front of them.

Not now! Geronimo wanted to scream. Not now!

A quarter of a mile away, completely blocking their escape route, filling the sky and obscuring the ground with its raging intensity, was a titanic dust storm. It was turning the very air red with the tons of dust particles borne into the atmosphere.

Kilrane shouted, bearing to the west, hoping they could outrace the storm.

He was wrong.

The Legion patrol managed to cover a thousand yards before the dust storm surged into them. The air promptly became almost unbreatheable, the hot wind searing their skin, the swirling dust stinging horse and rider alike. They were caught in the open, exposed and vulnerable, the nearest cover a good mile off.

Geronimo could barely see Kilrane and Cynthia only yards in front of him. He held his left arm over his mouth and nose to prevent the dust from entering. His eyelids were burning from the dust, and his body felt like hundreds of tiny critters were trying to prick him to death.

“Stay together!” Kilrane shouted. “We can’t afford to stop! Get a fix on my voice!”

Easier said than done. Geronimo could discern several moving shapes nearby, but he had no idea where the rest of the patrol was. Maybe, he told himself, maybe the storm would end soon.

Instead, its violence increased.

Geronimo focused his entire attention on Kilrane and the Palomino, unwilling to lose sight of Cynthia, even for a moment. The whistle of the wind attained a shrill pitch.

How much longer could this storm continue?

The onslaught persisted, seemingly interminable, a natural temper tantrum of incalculable magnitude.

Once, Geronimo felt the big black falter and recover, and he marveled at the animal’s endurance. The horse must be suffering greatly, but it never quit, it never surrendered to the elements.

Could he do any less?

Geronimo formulated a plan. Timing would be critical, but if successful he would be rid of the Legion patrol and Cynthia would be free of their clutches.

It all depended on the dust storm.

Eventually the storm would abate, and if he waited for the right moment, for the interval between the initial slackening of the storm and the time it stopped, he would have a few precious minutes when the visibility would improve enough to maneuver and the Legionnaires would be off-guard, not expecting any trouble.

It had to be then.

Geronimo waited impatiently, fingering the trigger on the Marlin. He recognized his own nervousness and willed his mind and body to relax.

Oh Great Spirit, he prayed, guide your son and servant in this enterprise! Preserve your children that we may honor and worship you all the days of our lives in this world and in the mansions on high! We are children of peace thrust into times of conflict, and we would live your will in this as in all other matters!

The storm slackened, the wind decreasing, the air slowly beginning to clear.

Geronimo could see Kilrane and Cynthia off to his left, about five yards separating them from him.

Now!

Geronimo surged the black forward, the reins and his Marlin clasped in his right hand. He deliberately rode the black into the Palomino, staggering Kilrane’s mount, even as his left arm encircled Cynthia and yanked her off the Palomino. In another instant, he was clear of the Palomino and racing eastward.

“Geronimo, stop!” Kilrane shouted behind him.

Geronimo ignored the command, knowing the rest of the patrol would be unaware of the escape in progress, eager to take advantage of the element of surprise.

“Stop!” Kilrane yelled again.

Cynthia was clutching Geronimo with all her strength. “You’re losing him!” she cried.

The dust storm, while continuing to diminish, was still stirring the dirt and posing a navigational problem, preventing Geronimo from seeing more than ten yards in front of the black.

“Geronimo!” Kilrane called a final time, sounding distant.

It was working!

Geronimo risked a glance over his right shoulder, elated to discover none of the Legion patrol was in sight. If the black could pour on the speed for another mile, their getaway would be assured.

Cynthia’s grip on him suddenly tightened, her nails digging into his shoulder. “Look out!” she screamed in frantic warning.

Geronimo, alarmed, twisted forward, his senses thrown off kilter when the black abruptly catapulted downward, seeming to float for several seconds before smashing into an earthen wall. The brutal impact wrenched Cynthia from Geronimos grasp and tumbled him from the horse. He felt his body tossed head over heels before he landed with a painful, jarring collision on the ground.

“Geronimo!” Cynthia shrieked somewhere nearby.

Geronimo struggled to rise, trying to assess their situation and locate Cynthia in the gloom. What had happened? Where were they?

There was a patch of light above his head, a wide circle about thirty yards in diameter.

Circle?

Thirty yards!

Geronimo, shocked by the realization, deduced where they were even as a shuffling noise sounded to his rear. He tried to turn, to confront whatever was lurking in back of him, but he was too slow.

A hard object struck the Warrior’s head with a resounding crack.

Geronimo toppled to the ground, striving to maintain consciousness.

Red dirt filled his slack mouth as he landed with a dull thud. His thoughts swirled, tenuous and distressing.

From the proverbial frying pan into the fire!

So sorry, Cynthia!

Being captives of the Legion was a breeze compared to their present predicament. In all the confusion and excitement of their mad dash for freedom, he’d managed to commit the folly of all follies! Blunders, in matters of life and death, were inexcusable and invariably fatal. Simple mistakes could cost you your life. Things like failing to keep your guns loaded. Or hurrying a shot at an opponent. Or turning your back on an avowed enemy.

Or plunging into a large hole in the Dead Zone.

Geronimo strained to rise, aware of a clammy, trickling sensation near his left ear. Blood. He managed to reach his hands and knees before a suffocating wave of vertigo overwhelmed him and he collapsed in a heap.

“Geronimo!” Cynthia screamed.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t hear her.