Denver Run

Chapter Nine

Kurt Carpenter, the immensely wealthy filmmaker responsible for constructing the survival site he dubbed “the Home,” and for organizing his followers into “the Family,” had wanted to make the postwar transition as smooth as possible. Carpenter attempted to forsee the Family’s future needs and provide for them. He projected a breakdown of law and order, and proceeded to amass an extensive weapons collection to insure the Family’s survival. He considered an enormous library essential to the Family’s welfare. How else were they to obtain the knowledge crucial for maintaining the basic necessities of life? Close to half a million books were stocked in E Block: books on gardening, hunting, fishing, and metalsmithing, natural medicine, herbal healing, geography, history, and religion and philosophy, the martial arts, military tactics, and photographic books, encyclopedias, dictionaries, sundry reference books and much, much more.

Carpenter also left them the SEAL. The Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle— SEAL, as it became known—cost Carpenter millions upon millions. Of revolutionary design, it ran on solar power collected by a pair of unique panels on the roof of the van-like vehicle. Its body was constructed of impervious plastic, shatterproof and heat-resistant, tinted green and designed to prevent anyone outside the transport from seeing within. Six extraordinary batteries, each with an unlimited life span, capable of being recharged countless times, were stored in a lead-lined case under the SEAL. Four huge tires served to convey the vehicle over any terrain. The SEAL had been Carpenter’s pride and joy.

The Family saw it as an irreplaceable blessing. Without it, they would not be able to travel great distances from the Home. With it, they could go virtually anywhere. Its indestructible body shielded the occupants from harm, and Carpenter’s modifications turned the SEAL into an awesome dreadnaught.

Carpenter had hired several mercenaries, skilled weapons specialists, and told them to make the SEAL unstoppable. They did their best. A pair of 50-caliber machine guns were mounted on the vehicle, one under each headlight. A miniaturized surface-to-air missile, dubbed a STINGER, was fitted in the roof above the driver’s seat. At the flip of a toggle switch, a roof panel would slide aside, the missile would slant upward on its launch track, and presto! A flamethrower was positioned behind the center of the front fender, an Army Surplus model with a range of 20 feet. As if all of this weren’t enough, a rocket launcher was secreted in the middle of the front grill. Shielded against the heat from the flamethrower, the rocket would emerge from its concealed compartment at the flick of the appropriate switch.

When it came to offensive weaponry, Blade reflected, the SEAL was armed to the proverbial teeth. He skillfully drove the transport south on U.S. Highway 287, avoiding the ruts and potholes in the road. The highways in the Civilized Zone weren’t in much better shape than those outside the Civilized Zone; a century of neglect had taken its toll.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi sat across from Blade in the bucket seat next to the passenger door. His katana was cradled in his lap. Behind the pair of bucket seats separated by a console was a seat running the width of the vehicle. Yama and Teucer occupied this seat, Yama behind Blade and Teucer behind Rikki. The rear section of the SEAL was devoted to a large storage space for provisions. Curled up on top of the pile of supplies, taking a snooze, was Lynx.

“Where are we now?” Blade asked. Another small town was directly ahead, and like all of the others it was deserted.

“We just passed a sign,” Rikki commented. “I didn’t catch the name.”

“I saw part of it,” offered Teucer. “Something about The Garden Spot of Colorado.”

Blade scanned the sparse landscape on both sides of the highway.

Except for a few trees here and there, there was nothing to compare to a “garden.” Which wasn’t too surprising. One thing he had noted, after many hours of studying the maps and atlases in the Family library, was that the people of long ago picked the weirdest names for places, usually with no semblance of rhyme or reason. Many aspects of the prewar culture were decidedly strange, some even perverse. Small wonder the idiots had almost destroyed the world!

The morning sun was well into the sky.

Blade frowned. There was still no sign of Samuel II or his Army. Lynx had to be right. Samuel II believed the Freedom Federation had one or more thermonuclear devices and was reluctant to engage them.

The SEAL was passing through a business district. They crossed a set of railroad tracks, and Blade wondered whether the trains were still functional. He seriously doubted that they were. The Civilized Zone’s industrial production was minimal. Utilizing its sparse resources to manufacture trains, when even the necessities were scarce, would be an incredible extravagance.

“Are we going to take a break or keep going?” Teucer inquired.

Blade drove past a bank, a small market, and a couple of restaurants.

Ahead, to his right, was a quaint park. “We’ll take a breather,” he replied. “I want to stretch my legs.”

There was a side street to the left.

Blade slowed and swung onto the side street. He braked the SEAL and turned off the engine. “Have them disperse around that park,” Blade instructed.

Rikki. “We won’t be staying long.” He opened his door and dropped to the ground.

The sun was bright, the air refreshingly chill and light. A raucous flock of starlings was in a nearby tree.

Blade slowly strolled along the street, his hands clasped behind his broad back.

“Do you want any of us to come with you?” Yama called out.

Blade glanced over his right shoulder.

Rikki, Yama, and Teucer were standing near the SEAL, concern on their features.

“No, thanks,” Blade responded. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

The rest of the trucks had stopped on U.S. Highway 287. The Cavalry riders were behind the troop transports.

Blade spotted an alley to his right and walked into it. Dry, reddish-brown dirt swirled around his moccasins. He strolled past several wooden-frame homes and came to a chain-link fence bordering a low wooden structure. On an impulse, he placed his hands on top of the chain-link fence and vaulted to the other side. He followed a cracked cement walk to the front of the low structure. A door to his left was hanging open. He stepped to the doorway and peered inside. The interior was dark and gloomy. Obviously, this building hadn’t been used in years and years. A fine coating of reddish dust covered everything. Sunlight streaming through two narrow windows high on the west wall revealed a wide, clear area on one side and a cluttered workshop on the other. A row of rusty tools—screwdrivers, hammers, saws, and the like—filled the top of a wooden workbench. A pair of antique sawhorses stood near the workbench.

Blade backed from the low structure and glanced at a large green house to his right. The paint on the house was chipped and worn away, particularly around the windows and the eaves. The sidewalk had buckled near the house.

Did anyone live here?

Somehow, he didn’t think so.

Curious, Blade advanced toward the house. He skirted to the left and found a large concrete porch, riddled with cracks, and a closed door.

Actually, two doors. A screen door and an inner wooden door. His right hand on the hilt of his right Bowie, Blade cautiously opened both doors with his left and slid inside, surprised they were unlocked.

The house was obviously uninhabited. Dust coated everything. There was a long white counter to his right. Suspended above the counter were white cabinets. A large metallic box stood to his left. Blade’s memory stirred. He remembered several of the photographic books in the Family library, and he was able to recognize the room he was in: it was called a kitchen, and the metal box was a refrigerator.

There was an archway to his left, and a doorway near the refrigerator.

Why wasn’t anyone living here?

Blade took a step and froze as something rattled near his feet. He glanced down.

There was a pile of human bones lying on the floor, coated with dust as was everything else, and partially covered by the faded remnants of a green shirt and a pair of jeans.

Was this the reason the home was unoccupied?

Blade peered at the whitish skull. There was a ragged, gaping cavity where the forehead had once been. He knew what could cause such a severe wound: a close-range blast from a shotgun.

Did the bones belong to the former owner of this house?

Blade moved to the archway and discovered a living room beyond.

There was an ancient sofa to the right of the archway. To the left was a wicker chair and a small oaken stand with a white telephone resting upon it. A television with a shattered screen stood on a pedestal to the right of the sofa. Against the far wall was a cabinet containing several stereo components.

The remains of four more bodies were scattered on the living room carpet, all displaying signs of having died a violent death by gunfire.

What had transpired here?

Blade walked toward a doorway on the far side of the living room, reflecting. He was fascinated by the artifacts. So this was how a typical residence had looked before the Big Blast, he thought. Quite comfy, in an ordinary sort of way.

But why all the bodies?

Blade stepped to the next doorway and found a bedroom, a smaller room harboring an unmade bed and a vanity, two wooden dressers, and a large maple cabinet. Again, on the opposite side of the room was a doorway, only this time the door was closed.

Five more skulls leered up from the beige carpet, all of them situated near the closed door.

One thing was obvious: there had been one hell of a fight in this house.

But why?

Blade approached the closed door, his right hand on his Bowie. What was beyond the door? Why had five people perished attempting to get through it?

There was only one way to find out.

Blade gripped the doorknob and turned, slowly pulling the door open.

The hinges creaked as the door swung out.

More barren bones. Four skulls and a pile of bones and old clothing formed a compact heap just inside the doorway.

What a struggle this must have been!

But the paramount question still remained: why?

Blade entered, then stopped, perplexed.

This room was the smallest of them all, not much more than 8 feet wide by 20 feet long. Shelves of books lined every wall. There was a large wooden desk in the middle of the room, and on top of the desk was a green typewriter with a sheet of paper under a paper bail.

This was it?

This was what 14 people had died for?

Blade spotted a framed photograph on the wall above the desk. He moved closer. It was a picture of a man, a woman, and their children. The woman was exceptionally attractive, with an open, honest expression. The man bordered on the lean side. He wore a shiny metallic object on his nose, and it took Blade a moment to remember what the object was: a pair of glasses.

Were these the former owners?

He glanced at the paper in the typewriter. There was some faint printing on the sheet. He brushed the ominipresent dust aside and leaned over. The subdued light from a window near the desk illuminated the paper.

Karen and Mark and Don and Chris:

If you’re reading this, it means you’ve missed us and we are on our way to our cabin in the high country. We will stay there until you catch up. As you can tell by all the bodies, a band of looters attacked while we were packing. Not to worry. Ann and the kids are fine. I have a few scratches.

Meet us at the cabin and watch out for the creeps!

Larry Blade sat down in a chair alongside the desk and gazed at the photograph on the wall. Was the man in the picture the one called Larry?

What had he done for a living? By what miracle had he protected his family from so many looters? Had all of this happened at the outset of the war? Was the house now shunned because of all the skeletons?

Watch out for the creeps, the man had said.

He sounded a little like Hickok.

They must have been extremely close-knit, this family. The man had valiantly defended them against superior odds. But wasn’t that what familial relationships were all about? Loving selfishly. Putting the welfare of your loved ones first. Doing whatever was necessary to insure their happiness.

Doing whatever was necessary…

Blade frowned. Why hadn’t he seen it earlier? If you truly love someone, they always come first. No matter what. You do whatever you must for them, even if it’s something you don’t necessarily want to do.

Like becoming Leader of the Family.

So what if he balked at the very idea? So what if he found it difficult to confront the prospect of one of the Family dying due to his stupidity or negligence? Didn’t he love them? All of them? Weren’t they his friends and associates and loved ones? Then how could he refuse them?

The answer was staring him in the face: he couldn’t.

Blade rose and nodded at the photograph. “So long,” he said aloud.

“And thanks.”

The dust stirred as Blade walked through the bedroom to the living room.

“Going somewhere, Warrior?” hissed a guttural voice.

Blade froze in the doorway, startled.

Three men, dressed all in black, including black masks over their faces, were waiting for him on the other side of the living room, lined up under the archway. All three had assumed martial arts postures. All three carried long Oriental swords.

Blade had encountered a man dressed like these three before. The man had stealthily entered the Home in the early morning hours and attempted to blow up the SEAL, only a short while before Alpha Triad had departed for the Twin Cities.

“You look surprised,” the speaker stated. “You shouldn’t be. The Imperial Assassins have kept your convoy under surveillance since Fort Collins, waiting our chance, waiting for you to drop your guard.”

“Samuel has a message for you,” said the figure in the middle, a sneer in his voice.

“He sent us to deliver it,” commented the third.

“Three guesses what it is,” declared the first man. With that, he charged.