New York Run

Chapter Two

The child was 18 months old, a stocky boy with full cheeks, impish blue eyes, and curly blond hair. He stared up at his father with an intensity belying his tender age.

“Now this is called a Colt Python,” said the man, twirling the pearl-handled revolver in his right hand. “One day, these guns could be yours.” He twirled the Colt in his left hand, then slid both Pythons into their respective holsters with a practiced flourish. To even a casual observer, the boy’s lineage would have been obvious. The father was a tall, lean blond with long hair and a flowing moustache. His blue eyes seemed to twinkle with an inner light, reflecting a keen zest for life. The gunman wore buckskins and moccasins, as did the child. “Are you payin’ attention to all of this, Ringo?” he asked the boy.

Ringo dutifully nodded, then grinned. “Ringo potty.”

The gunman’s mouth dropped. “What?”

“Ringo potty pease,” the boy said.

“Blast!” The gunman grabbed his son and darted toward a nearby cabin. “Your mother’s gonna kill me if I don’t get you there on time.” He jogged to the cabin, opened a door in the west wall, and dashed inside.

As the door was closing, another man appeared on the scene. He was huge, his powerful physique bulging with layers of muscles, his arms rippling as he moved. A black leather vest, green fatigue pants, and black boots scarcely covered his awesome frame. Twin Bowie knives were strapped around his stout waist. His dark hair hung down over his gray eyes. Smiling, he strolled up to the cabin door and knocked.

“Who the blazes is it?” came a muffled response.

“Blade,” the giant announced.

“I’m busy!”

“I’ll bet you are,” Blade said, chuckling. “I can wait.”

“This might take a while, pard,” yelled the gunman.

“I can wait,” Blade reiterated. He leaned upon the rough wall and idly crossed his massive arms at chest height. This was the life! he told himself.

Taking it easy. Enjoying his wife and son and discharging his responsibilities as head Warrior with a minimum of fuss. The fewer hassles, the better. A robin alighted in a maple tree at the west end of the cabin. A squirrel crisscrossed the ground 15 yards away. The scene was tranquil and soothing.

As life should be.

The cabin door was jerked open, the gunman framed in the doorway with a diaper clutched in his right hand. “Is this important?” he demanded. “I’m kind of tied up at the moment.”

Blade grinned. “So I see. Did you reach the toilet in time?”

“You saw, huh?” the gunman asked sheepishly.

“I think I’m going to nominate you for daddy of the year,” Blade joked.

Little Ringo waddled into view between the gunman’s legs, his pants down around his ankles, his privates exposed to the world.

“Hi, Ringo,” Blade cheerfully greeted him. “Is Hickok behaving himself?”

Ringo looked up at his father. “Ringo pee-pee,” he said in his high voice.

“Now?” Hickok inquired.

Ringo nodded and proceeded to urinate all over the floor and Hickok’s moccasins.

“Blast!” Hickok said, taking hold of his son and scrambling toward the bathroom.

Blade laughed. “You sure you know what you’re doing?” he called out.

“Funny! Funny! Funny!” was the muttered reply from the bathroom.

“I don’t know if Sherry should leave you alone with Ringo,” Blade taunted his friend. “It could be hazardous to the boy’s health.”

“What about you, pard?” Hickok rejoined. “How come Jenny let you out of the house without your leash?”

“She’s over at Geronimo’s,” Blade answered. “Where’s your wife?”

“She went to see the Tillers about an extra allotment of veggies for Ringo,” Hickok revealed. “He had the runs, and the Healers said he needs more greens in his diet.”

“Gabriel had the runs last week,” Blade said. “He’s better now,” he added, referring to his own son.

Hickok emerged from the bathroom a minute later with Ringo in tow.

There was a distinct bulge on the left side of the boy’s pants.

“Are you certain you put that diaper on correctly?” Blade asked.

Hickok glanced at his son. “Yeah. Why?”

“It doesn’t look right,” Blade said.

“You’re just jealous ’cause you can’t do it as good as me,” Hickok retorted.

A slim, blonde woman, wearing a brown leather shirt and faded, patched jeans, walked around the east end of the cabin. A Smith and Wesson .357 Combat Magnum was belted around her narrow waist. “Hi, Blade,” she greeted the towering Warrior.

“Hi, Sherry,” Blade said to Hickok’s wife.

Sherry’s green eyes narrowed as they fell on Ringo. She shot an annoyed glare in the guman’s direction. “What’s wrong with his diaper?”

“He just went potty,” Hickok stated proudly. “And I got him there in time. Well, almost in time.”

“What did you do to his diaper?” Sherry reiterated.

“Nothin’. Why?”

Sherry knelt and tapped the bulge in Ringo’s pants.

“What’d you put in there? A rock?”

“I just put on a new diaper,” Hickok stated.

“What kind of knot did you use?” Sherry inquired.

“What does it matter?” Hickok said defensively.

“What kind of knot?” Sherry asked insistently.

“A timber hitch,” Hickok mumbled.

“A what?”

“A timber hitch,” Hickok declared. “I’m good at timber hitches.”

Sherry glanced at Blade, rolled her eyes, and sighed. She picked up Ringo and stalked into the cabin. “How many times do I have to tell you,” she said over her right shoulder, “you don’t use timber hitches on a cloth diaper.”

“So what’s the big deal over a teensy-weensy knot?” Hickok wanted to know. “The diaper stays on, doesn’t it?”

“Men!” Sherry exclaimed as she walked into the bathroom.

“Women!” Hickok muttered as he stepped outside and closed the cabin door. He looked at Blade. “So what’s up?”

“Plato wants to see us,” Blade said.

“How come?” Hickok asked as they strolled to the west.

“The Freedom Federation is going to have another conference,” Blade disclosed. “The leaders are going to meet here in a couple of months, and Plato wants to go over our security arrangements.”

Hickok snickered. “Just like the old-timer to get all frazzled about somethin’ two months away!”

“Don’t refer to Plato as an old-timer,” Blade said testily.

“Why not?”

“You should treat Plato with more respect,” Blade stated.

“I respect Plato,” Hickok said sincerely. “But when a man is pushin’ fifty, and he’s got long, gray hair down to his shoulders, and more wrinkles on his face than there are cracks in the mud of a dry creek bed, then I reckon he qualifies for old-timer status.”

“Plato is the Family Leader,” Blade said archly. “He deserves our courtesy and consideration.”

“But that doesn’t mean I’ve gotta kiss his tootsies,” the gunman remarked.

Blade sighed. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

“Yep.” Hickok nodded. “My missus tells me that at least once a day.”

“She’s right,” Blade said.

The two Warriors were approaching the concrete block nearest the row of cabins, and Blade gazed at the compound ahead, marveling once again at how well the Founder had built the Home.

Kurt Carpenter had spent millions on the survivalist retreat. Square in shape, enclosed by brick walls 20 feet in height and topped with barbed wire, the Home was a model of efficiency and organization. The eastern half of the compound was preserved in its natural state and devoted to agricultural pursuits. In the middle of the Home, aligned from north to south in a straight line, were the cabins reserved for married Family members. The western section was the socializing area and the site of the large concrete bunkers—or blocks, as the Family called them. Arranged in a triangular formation, there were six in all. The first, A Block, was the Family armory and the southern tip of the triangle. B Block came 100 yards to the northwest of A Block, and it was the sleeping quarters for single Family members and the gathering place for community functions.

C Block was 100 yards northwest of B Block, and it served as the infirmary for the Family Healers, members rigorously trained in herbal and holistic medicine. D Block, 100 yards east of C Block, was the Family workshop for everything from carpentry to metalworking. Next in line, 100 yards east of D Block, was E Block, the enormous Family library personally stocked with hundreds of thousands of books by Kurt Carpenter. Carpenter had foreseen the value knowledge would acquire in a world stripped of its educational institutions. Consequently, Carpenter had stocked books on every conceivable subject in the library. These precious volumes, frayed and faded after a century of use, were the Family’s most cherished possessions. Finally, 100 yards southwest of the library was F Block, utilized for gardening, farming, and food-processing purposes.

The entire compound was surrounded by the brick walls and one additional line of defense: an interior moat, a rechanneled stream, entering the retreat under the northwestern corner and diverted in both directions along the base of the four walls, finally exiting the compound underneath the southeastern corner. Access to the Home was over a drawbridge positioned in the center of the west wall, a drawbridge designed to lower outward. Traversal of the moat was accomplished via a massive bridge between the drawbridge and the compound proper.

The cleared space between the six blocks was filled with Family members: families on picnics, children playing, lovers arm in arm, others chatting or singing or engaged in athletic activities.

“Who’s on wall duty?” Hickok inquired.

“Beta Triad,” Blade replied. The 15 Family Warriors were divided into 5 fighting units, or Triads, of 3 Warriors apiece. Designated as Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Omega, and Zulu, they rotated guard assignments and their other responsibilities during times of peace, but functioned collectively during any conflict and fought as a precision force during times of war.

Hickok, scanning the rampart on the west wall, nodded. “I can seek Rikki,” he mentioned. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was the head of Beta Triad. His Beta mates, Yama and Teucer, would be patrolling the other walls.

“I see Plato,” Blade commented.

The wizened Family Leader was standing near the wooden bridge, his hands clasped behind his wiry frame, his gray hair whipping in the breeze of the August day.

“So what’s the big deal about security arrangements for a conference two months from now?” Hickok absently asked.

“We’ll find out in a minute,” Blade said, and the pair made their way toward Plato.

A stocky Indian, dressed in green pants and a green shirt, with a genuine tomahawk tucked under his deer-hide belt and slanted across his right thigh, jogged in their direction.

Hickok beamed. “Looks like Geronimo’s wife decided to let him get some fresh air.”

Geronimo reached them and nodded. “I’ve been looking for you two.”

“Why? Did you miss me?” Hickok asked playfully.

Geronimo, his brown eyes twinkling, feigned shock. “Miss you? Why would anyone in their right mind miss a monumental pain in the butt like you?” He ran his left hand through his short, black hair and, disguised by the motion of his left arm, winked at Blade.

Hickok touched his chest. “You’ve hurt me to the quick,” he said in mock pain.

“To the quick?” Geronimo reiterated playfully. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you’ve been reading some Shakespeare.”

Hickok’s nose crinkled distastefully. “Shakespeare? Are you joshing me or what? Give me Louis L’Amour any day of the week.”

“Aha!” Geronimo exclaimed. “So you admit you can read!”

“I can read as good as you!” Hickok retorted. “I attended the same Family school you did, dummy!” He paused. “Why?”

“Because,” Geronimo said, his full features radiating his impending triumph in their continual war of words, “anyone who talks like you do and acts like you do had to pick up their stupidity somewhere! And I know you don’t come by it naturally, because I knew your parents and they were both normal.”

Blade laughed. As his fellow Alpha Triad members and lifelong friends, Hickok and Geronimo were constantly at each other’s throats. The lean gunman and his shorter partner were known to enjoy an abiding affection, the kind of friendship you only find once or twice in a lifetime. They were spiritual brothers, usually inseparable, and decidedly deadly when working in concert. Blade was grateful they were in his Triad.

The trio neared Plato.

“How’s Ringo doing?” Geronimo asked Hickok.

“Fine,” Hickok said, grinning. “He’s a chip off the old block.”

“Poor kid,” Geronimo mumbled.

Plato turned as they reached him. His aged frame was clothed in an old, yellow shirt with a leather patch on both elbows and worn, brown pants. “Hello,” he greeted them. “Thank you for coming.”

“Blade’s wife said you wanted to see all of us,” Geronimo said.

Plato nodded. “We must discuss the Freedom Federation conference.”

“But it’s not for two months yet,” Hickok stated.

“I don’t believe in leaving important details until the very last minute,” Plato said earnestly.

“We had a conference here about six months ago,” Blade said. “We didn’t have any problems then. All we had to do was post additional Warriors on the walls.”

“True,” Plato admitted. “But I’ve received a most disturbing communication from Wolfe.”

Blade’s piercing, gray eyes narrowed. Wolfe was the leader of the Moles, dwellers in a subterranean city located over 50 miles southeast of the Home. “When did you get word from Wolfe?”

“Late last night,” Plato said. “His messenger arrived after you had retired, and I didn’t see the need to awaken you.”

“Where’s this messenger now?” Geronimo asked.

“Sleeping in B Block,” Plato said. “He was extremely fatigued from the journey. After he delivered his report, we fed him and told him to catch up on his sleep.”

“So what was the message?” Blade asked the Family Leader.

Plato stretched and gazed at a group of children playing tag. “Evidently the Moles captured someone near their city. Wolfe suspected the man was spying and interrogated him. Unfortunately,” Plato said, frowning, “this alleged spy did not survive the interrogation.”

“Did he spill the beans before he kicked the bucket?” Hickok asked.

Plato glanced at the gunman. “Your colorful colloquialisms never cease to astound me.”

“Can you lay that on me again?” Hickok responded. “In plain English this time?”

“Forget that!” Blade said, a bit impatiently. As head Warrior, his paramount concern was the safety of the Family. And if Wolfe was alarmed enough to send a messenger, the message must be critical. “What was the rest of the runner’s report?”

“The man the Moles caught would not divulge any details concerning his origin or his reason for being near the Mole city,” Plato said, “but he did make a few perplexing statements before he died.”

“Like what?” Blade prompted.

“He gloated before he expired,” Plato said. “He told Wolfe the Moles would all be dead before the year is done. He bragged that the Freedom Federation would be history, as he put it, before too long.”

“How did he know about the Freedom Federation?” Blade asked.

“That’s what bothered Wolfe,” Plato stated. “That, and the equipment the man was carrying when apprehended.”

“What equipment?” Geronimo interjected.

Plato scanned the compound. “I sent Bertha after it.” He spotted a dusky-hued woman approaching from the armory, A Block. “When I first saw you coming.”

Bertha was another of the Family’s Warriors, a member of Gamma Triad. She was remarkably lovely in a striking sort of way. Her features conveyed an abundance of inner strength and a supreme self-confidence.

Curly black hair cascaded over her ears and down to her shirt collar. She wore tight-fitting fatigues and black boots. Her brown eyes lit up at the sight of Hickok. “Hey there, White Meat!” she cried out. “What’s happening?”

“Not much,” Hickok replied uneasily.

“Relax, sucker!” Bertha said, laughing. “I ain’t gonna jump your buns in public!”

Hickok hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt and glared at her. “How many times do I gotta tell you to stop talking to me like that? I’m married, remember?”

Bertha chuckled and nudged him with her left elbow. “I can’t help it if I think you’re the best-lookin’ hunk in the Home!”

Geronimo couldn’t resist the opening. “If you think Hickok is the best-looking man here,” he chimed in, “then I’d suggest you have your eyes examined by the Healers!”

“Bertha!” Blade snapped with a tone of authority in his voice.

Bertha straightened and faced the giant Warrior, her chief. “Yes, sir,” she said, all seriousness.

“Everybody knows you still have a crush on Hickok,” Blade said, “but now’s not the time to indulge it.” He pointed at the items in her right hand. “Are these what Plato sent you to get?”

Bertha nodded and extended her right arm. “Yes, sir. Here you go.”

Blade took the two pieces of equipment, a square, black box and a futuristic rifle. “Thank you. That’s all for now.”

Bertha wheeled, puckered her lips in Hickok’s direction, smirked, and walked off.

“You were a mite hard on her, weren’t you?” Hickok commented.

“We’re Warriors,” Blade stated testily. “We’re supposed to be disciplined. There’s a time and a place for everything.” He saw the others studying him, silent accusations in their eyes, and he averted his gaze.

Hickok was right. He had been hard on Bertha. And he knew the reason why. The prospect of another threat to the Freedom Federation, to the Family and the Home, agitated him greatly. The past several months had been peaceful. He’d been able to relax, to enjoy life for a change. The last thing he wanted was another damn threat to the Family’s security! The very idea angered him, and he’d foolishly vented his budding frustration on Bertha.

Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

“These are what the spy was carrying?” Blade needlessly asked to distract the others.

“Yes,” Plato confirmed. “Wolfe was quite upset by them.”

Blade could readily understand Wolfe’s motives. Both the rifle and the mysterious black box were in superb condition. Indeed, both appeared to be relatively new. But where did they come from? Who had the industrial capability, the manufacturing know-how and resources, to produce items of such superior quality? The shiny black box was outfitted with a row of knobs and control buttons positioned along the bottom of the top panel.

Above the knobs was a glass plate covering a meter of some sort. A small, vented grill occupied the upper right corner. “What is this thing?”

Plato shrugged his skinny shoulders. “We don’t know. The Elders have examined it, but we’re unable to ascertain its function.”

“Can I see that, pard?” Hickok inquired, reaching for the rifle.

Blade handed the gun over.

Hickok whistled in admiration as he hefted the firearm. “This is a right dandy piece of hardware,” he said in appreciation. The entire gun, including the 20-inch barrel and the folding stock, was black to minimize any reflection. The barrel was tipped with a short silencer, and an elaborate scope was mounted above the ejection chamber. A 30-shot magazine protruded from under the rifle near the trigger guard. There were four buttons on one side of the gun, close to the stock, and a small, plastic panel above the buttons. On top of the scope was a fifth button, and extending from the front of the scope, at the top, was a four-inch tube or miniature barrel. “I never saw a gun like this,” Hickok said, marveling, “and I know our gun books in the library like the palm of my hand.”

Plato stroked his pointed chin, running his fingers through his beard.

“Can you imagine the threat if an army, outfitted with a rifle like that one, laid siege to the Home?”

“We’ve fought off attackers before,” Hickok boasted.

“Yes,” Plato concurred, “but they were ill-equipped. The rifle you’re holding is of recent vintage. What if the same people responsible for that automatic rifle can also fabricate larger weaponry on an extensive scale? What then?”

Hickok didn’t answer.

“We must find out where these came from,” Blade announced.

“How?” Geronimo asked. “Wolfe killed the spy.”

“We’ll think of something,” Blade said optimistically.

“We must keep this information amongst ourselves,” Plato said.

“There’s no need to instill unnecessary anxiety in the Family.”

“We’ll keep quiet,” Blade promised. “And I’ll have a word with Bertha. Who else knows?”

“Ares,” Plato revealed. “He was on guard duty on the west wall last night when the messenger arrived.”

“Ares ain’t exactly a blabbermouth,” Hickok noted.

Ares was the head of Omega Triad and a superlative Warrior.

“But how will we find out where the spy came from?” Geronimo reiterated.

Blade opened his mouth to respond.

The hot air was abruptly rent by the strident blast of a horn sounding from the west rampart, the horn the Warriors used to signal in times of danger!