New York Run

Chapter Six

Lieutenant Alicia Farrow was impressed, and it took a lot to impress her.

As a combat-tested veteran with seven years in the Technic Elite Service, the commando arm of the Technic Army, she’d seen countless soldiers over the years. She’d fought side by side with some of the toughest men and women around. So she wasn’t about to be awed by other professional fighters, not unless they were exceptional.

The Warriors were exceptional.

She’d observed their training sessions: their marksmanship practice on the firing range in the southeast corner of the Home, their martial-arts tutelage under the direction of a stately Elder, and their individualized workouts with their favorite weapons. Over the past three days, she’d developed an abiding respect for the Warriors. She found herself, despite her better judgment, admiring their inherent integrity and devotion to the Family.

It was too bad they had to die.

But the Minister had been most explicit. The Warriors, even the entire Family, must be eradicated. If the Technics were to assume their rightful place as world rulers, then every potential rival must be destroyed. The Freedom Federation was too large to be overcome in one fell swoop.

Accordingly, the Minister had decided 10 selectively smash the separate Freedom Federation members beginning with the Family. His reasoning was logical and sound. Although the Family was the smallest contingent in the Freedom Federation numerically speaking, it exerted the controlling influence in the Federation’s periodic Councils. The Family was becoming a symbol, a beacon of hope in a land ravaged by nuclear and chemical devastation. Wargo had told Plato the truth. Stories were spreading about the Family and the Warriors, and not just in the Freedom Federation but in the Outlands beyond. In an age when written and electronic communications and records were virtually nonexistent, fireside tales were the order of the day. Families would gather about their hearths at night, singles would congregate at crude “watering holes” where rotgut beverages were served, and in towns and settlements throughout the land everyone would exchange the latest information, the newest gossip they might have heard from a passing traveler. Serving as both a means of public dissemination of knowledge and a popular socializing entertainment, the stories grew as they were conveyed from mouth to mouth, from one inhabited outpost to the next. To some, the Home was becoming a sort of modern Utopia, while several of the Warriors had acquired mythical proportions. Ages prior, a Greek named Homer had regaled his listeners by extolling the herculean exploits of Achilles, Odysseus, Telamonian Aias, Diomedes and company. Now the cycle was being repeated, and the Minister did not like it one bit.

The Technics were determined to crush all potential opposition and assert their natural superiority. As long as the Family existed, the people had a source of inspiration and encouragement. If the Family fell, so would the hopes and aspirations of thousands, making the conquest of America easier. The Freedom Federation would become demoralized if the Family perished, and they might even disband without the Family’s unifying persuasiveness to guide them.

As she stood near A Block, watching Rikki-Tikki-Tavi and Yama spar, Lieutenant Farrow reviewed the Minister’s plan and marveled at his brilliance. The Family could be wiped out with a small force, the Minister had stated, his black eyes blazing at her from his elevated dais in the Technic throne room. The first step would be to gain their trust. The second to lure several of the Warriors and the SEAL away from the Home.

And the final step would take place when the signal was given for the demolition team to level the Home, a demolition team of four commandos waiting in the forest outside the walls.

A signal Lieutenant Farrow had to give.

Farrow observed the flowing swirl of motion as Rikki and Yama engaged again, their arms and legs whirling, their martial-arts techniques honed to perfection.

Despite his diminutive stature, Rikki was more than holding his own.

His black form pranced around the big man in blue, flicking hand and foot blows with precise control. For his part, Yama was hard-pressed to prevent any of Rikki’s bone-shattering strikes from connecting. After several minutes of sustained mock combat, Rikki abruptly stepped back and bowed to his opponent, a grin creasing his face.

“You are improving,” Rikki said.

Yama bowed and smiled. “Coming from you, that’s a real compliment.”

“Same time tomorrow?” Rikki asked, wiping his right palm across his perspiring brow.

“Fine by me,” Yama replied.

Kikki glanced toward the Technic officer, ten yards away, his brown eyes narrowing. “She follows you everywhere, doesn’t she?”

Yama nodded. “I’ve been appointed as her official Family liaison.”

“I’m sure that’s the reason she sticks by your side,” Rikki remarked, his white teeth flashing.

“Are you trying to imply something?” Yama inquired. He ran his left hand through his fine, silver hair and stroked his drooping silver mustache.

“Not me,” Rikki responded innocently. “But you should thank the Spirit Hickok isn’t here.”

“Why?”

“You know Hickok,” Rikki said, still grinning. “He likes to tease everyone.”

“But you don’t?” Yama asked.

Rikki chuckled. “Of course not. A disciplined martial artist does not demean himself by exhibiting crude humor.”

Yama laughed. “If you ask me, you’ve been hanging around Geronimo too much.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re starting to sling as much bull as he does,” Yama said, and the two Warriors laughed together.

Lieutenant Farrow moved toward them. “May I compliment both of you on your skill?”

Rikki bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

“Are all of the Warriors as proficient as you?” Farrow inquired.

“All of the Warriors are skilled,” Rikki answered.

“He’s too modest,” Yama interjected. “Rikki is the best martial artist in the Family.”

“From what I saw,” Lieutenant Farrow said, “you’re as good as he is.”

Rikki grinned at Yama. “I have duties to attend to. I’ll see you later.”

His katana was leaning against a maple tree ten feet away to their right, next to Yama’s usual arsenal. He walked over and reclaimed his sword, slid it through his belt, and headed toward B Block.

“Did I offend him?” Lieutenant Farrow asked, her brown eyes probing Yama’s blue.

“No,” Yama told her. “He thought we might like to be alone.”

“Why in the world would he think that?” Farrow demanded defensively.

Yama shrugged and walked to the maple tree. He replaced the Browning Hi-Power 9-millimeter Automatic Pistol under his right arm, and slid the Smith and Wesson Model 586 Distinguished Combat Magnum into his left shoulder holster. The 15-inch survival knife was returned to its sheath on his right hip, and the gleaming scimitar took its customary position on his left hip. Finally, he picked the Wilkinson Carbine up from the green grass, wiped the barrel, and slung the gun over his left shoulder.

“Do you always pack so much hardware?” Farrow asked.

“Always,” Yama replied.

“Why?” she wanted to know.

“The more diverse my arms, the more effective I can be,” Yama explained.

“I get the impression you’re very, very effective,” I arrow said.

Yama was about to reply when a terrified scream rent the air.

“What was that?” Farrow questioned him, looking around.

Yama was already moving, heading in the direction of the drawbridge at a rapid clip.

Lieutenant Farrow hurried after him. “What is it?” she cried.

Yama didn’t bother to respond. He ran faster as a second scream wafted over the compound, coming from the west, from the field beyond the west wall. The drawbridge was down, and he knew several Family members were in the field, working at removing a cluster of weeds growing about 40 yards from the wall. Normally a tedious routine, the clearing detail could be fraught with danger because of the proximity to the forest. Once a week three Tillers went outside the walls to attend to the clearing, guarded by the Warriors on the ramparts. Seldom did the Tillers encounter trouble so close to the Home, and never had the Warriors failed to protect them.

This day was different.

As Yama reached the bridge over the moat he glanced up and spotted Ares on the rampart directly above. At six feet, three inches in height, lean and all muscle, Ares was a formidable Warrior, but he accented his fierceness by shaving the hair on both sides of his head and leaving a trimmed, red crest from his forehead to his spine. He wore dark brown leather breeches, a matching shirt, and sandals, and carried a short sword on his left hip. Yama saw Ares furiously tugging on the magazine in his automatic rifle.

Ares saw Yama crossing the bridge. “The damn thing’s jammed!” he yelled in frustration. “Hurry!”

Other Family members were hastening toward the bridge.

Yama was the first across the drawbridge. He took in the tableau before him and darted toward the Tillers.

They desperately needed help.

Any help.

One of the Tillers, an elderly man, was already down, his chest torn to bloody ribbons. Two other Tillers, a youth and an attractive blonde woman, both wearing green overalls, were eight feet off, both seemingly riveted in place, frozen by the sight of their attackers.

Because there were two of them.

Once they might have been called gray wolves. Now they were deformed mutations, their very genes corrupted and transformed by the poisons in the environment. Born disfigured, these two had survived their infancy and struck off together to rear more mutations like themselves.

Accustomed as he was to the sight of mutations and the even worse mutates, Yama nevertheless repressed a shudder as he closed on the deviate duo.

Both wolves were over five feet at the shoulder. Both were covered with a coat of gray fur. But after that, any resemblance to a real wolf was strictly coincidental. Each had six legs instead of four, and each leg was tipped with tapering talons instead of paws. By a curious genetic quirk, both creatures had two tails and, incredibly, two heads. The second head extended from the front of each mutant’s neck. It was somewhat smaller than the original head, but its mouth was equally filled with a glistening array of pointed teeth. Red, baleful eyes were fastened on the Tillers. Both were slavering and growling, standing side by side next to the dead man sprawled before them.

Yama never hesitated.

The wolves were 30 yards away when he unslung his Wilkinson and aimed into the air. The two Tillers still alive were between the wolves and him, and Yama didn’t want to risk accidentally winging one of them. He elevated the Wilkinson barrel and fired a short burst into the air.

Neither wolf so much as flinched.

The mutants shifted their attention to the approaching man in blue.

Four heads raised skyward, and four husky throats bayed their defiant challenge. They bounded forward, separating, one to the right and the other to the left, temporarily forgetting the two Tillers as they concentrated on the human in blue.

“Get down!” Yama shouted to the Tillers.

They didn’t budge, gaping at their fallen companion.

Yama angled to the left, wanting a clear line of fire. He dropped to his right knee, raised the Wilkinson, and fired.

The mutant on the left was caught in mid-stride. It was knocked onto its side by the impact of the heavy slugs and lay still.

Yama shifted to cover the other wolf.

The first one sprang to its feet and resumed its charge.

Yama waited for the second wolf to get closer, his finger on the trigger of the Wilkinson. Focused on the second wolf, he mistakenly neglected to verify the first was dead.

The oversight cost him.

Yama was squeezing the trigger to fire at the second mutant, when someone behind him shrieked a warning.

“Yama! Look out!”

Yama swiveled, too late. He glimpsed a heavy body and a lot of fur, and then something slammed into his chest, sending the Wilkinson flying, and he landed on his broad back with the first wolf straddling his legs and snarling.

The second wolf was 15 yards distant and bounding toward its mate.

Yama tensed, his hands at his sides, waiting for the mutant to make a move. He knew if he so much as twitched, the wolf would be on him ripping and tearing with its strong teeth and talons. He didn’t want to do anything to provoke it. He was tempted to grab his survival knife, but realized the consequences.

The mutant inched toward its prey’s neck, puzzled by the human’s inexplicable immobility.

A pistol cracked, four times in swift succession.

Yama saw the bullets hit the wolf straddling him. He could see the thing jerk as the shots hit home.

Who was doing the shooting? Ares?

The wolf growled and leaped to the attack, vaulting over the prone Warrior after this new assailant.

Yama rolled to his feet, drawing his scimitar. His blue eyes widened when he found his benefactor. It wasn’t Ares or one of the other Warriors.

It was Lieutenant Farrow.

The Technic officer was holding her automatic pistol in her right hand and using her left hand to brace her right wrist. Her legs spread wide, her left eye closed, she aimed and fired again.

The nearest mutant twisted, blood spurting from its ruptured throat, but it kept coming, saliva dripping from its lower jaws.

Lieutenant Farrow blasted the wolf two more times.

Yama raced after the mutants. They were almost upon Farrow, and her shots weren’t having any apparent affect.

Farrow fired twice more, then her pistol clicked on empty.

Yama was too far away to lend her assistance.

The first mutant leaped for Farrow’s jugular.

The Technic dodged to the right, narrowly evading the slashing talons of the genetic deviate. She turned, keeping her eyes on the first wolf, inadvertently exposing her back to the second.

Yama was ten feet off, still too far away to be of any use. Unless he could distract the mutants. “Try me!” he shouted savagely. “Me!”

The second wolf, bounding between Yama and the Technic, abruptly spun at the sound of the harsh voice to its rear. Its fiery eyes alighted on the Warrior in blue, and it charged.

Yama stopped, holding his scimitar at chest height, waiting, gathering his strength. If he missed, the mutant wouldn’t give him a second chance.

The wolf was on him in a gray streak, its jaws snapping at his waist and legs, snarling ferociously.

Yama’s bulging muscles powered the scimitar in a vicious arc, the curved sword gleaming in the bright sunlight as it whisked through the air and into the springing mutant, connecting, slicing into the creature’s top head, into its forehead, neatly severing a section of the wolfs scalp in a spray of crimson, hair, and flesh.

The wolf went down in a disjointed heap.

Yama knew the thing was still alive, but he couldn’t waste a precious second.

The first mutant had Farrow on the ground, its lower jaw locked on her left forearm, and was brutally wrenching her from side to side while its top head attempted to bite her neck.

Yama reached them in four strides. The scimitar drove up and down in a shining glitter of light, the razor edge entering the wolf behind its upper ears and penetrating six inches into its skull.

The mutant stiffened, released Farrow, and spasmodically tore to the right, away from the man in blue. The force of its momentum yanked the scimitar from Yama’s hands. It staggered from the wound, its upper eyes glazing over but its lower orbs alert and enraged.

Yama reached down and hauled Farrow erect. Her left forearm was bleeding profusely, and her features were pale, although she tried to muster a reassuring grin.

Yama reached for his Browning, but even as he did Farrow pointed over his right shoulder and started to scream a warning. He turned, the Browning coming clear of its holster.

The second wolf, the one with the missing scalp, was nearly on them, eight feet distant and sweeping forward.

A small figure in black suddenly hurtled past Yama and Farrow, a katana gripped in both hands, darting toward the raging mutant. Without hesitating, without missing a beat, Rikki-Tikk-Tavi assumed the horse stance, squatted, and swung his katana with the blade close to the ground.

Surprised by the appearance of another foe, dazed from the blow Yama had inflicted, the second wolf was unable to react in time. It felt a searing pain in all six legs as its lower limbs were hacked from its body. It instantly collapsed, its means of locomotion gone, and landed on its stomach. The mutant endeavored to flip onto its left side, to evade the human in black.

It failed.

Rikki reared over the second wolf, the katana held aloft, and slashed once, twice, three times, each stroke splitting the mutant’s body further, almost severing the twin heads from its bulky form.

Yama, fascinated by Rikki’s skilled dispatching of the second wolf, suddenly remembered the first mutant and turned.

The scimitar imbedded in its top head, the first wolf lurched at the man in blue and the injured woman.

A lanky shape dressed in brown ran into view behind the first mutant, his red Mohawk, bobbing as he jogged nearer, his face a study in primal fury. “Get out of the way!” he bellowed.

Yama looped his left arm around Farrow’s trim waist and leaped, drawing her with him, dropping to the ground and flattening, glancing over his right shoulder and seeing Rikki performing a similar maneuver.

And then Ares was there. Perhaps it was his red hair, maybe his inherited temperament, but Ares was known as the most hotheaded Warrior. He had once escorted two Healers outside of the Home, protecting them while they searched for herbs. The Healers had stumbled across a large black bear, and the bear attacked. Ares came to their rescue. According to the Healers, the bear never stood a chance. Ares took it on with just his short sword and made mincemeat of the hapless predator. The Healers later stated Ares seemed to be enjoying himself as he fought. Too much. So whether justified or not, Ares was considered to be particularly bloodthirsty when his wrath was aroused.

And at the moment he was incensed beyond endurance.

Irritated by the jamming of his gun, inflamed by the death of the Tiller while under his guard, and racked by a tormenting sense of personal guilt, he had cleared his weapon and raced to aid Yama and Rikki. Now, his face contorted, his features livid, he raised his automatic rifle and fired at the first mutant, his slugs stitching across its heads and abdomen, and he fired as it stumbled and fell onto its knees, fired as it desperately tried to stand and lunge at him, and fired until both heads were a mass of shattered reddish pulp. Not content with the death of the first mutant, Ares advanced on the second. Although the wolf was limp, its eyes lifeless, its body flat on the ground, the Mohawk-topped Warrior slowly walked toward it, pumping round after round into the mutant, and only suspending his one-man barrage when the rifle lacked bullets to shoot.

Ares stood next to the decimated mutant, sweat coating his hawkish face, and kicked it.

“I think it’s dead,” Rikki remarked, standing.

Yama stood, helping Farrow to rise.

Ares gazed at the deceased Tiller. He turned to Rikki, his green eyes rimmed with moisture. “I killed him,” he said in a subdued tone.

“You did not kill him,” Rikki said, disputing Ares. “I was inside B Block when this began and I didn’t hear the initial screams. One of the others told me about them, and I saw you working with your gun as I was running toward the drawbridge. Guns jam. It’s a fact of life.”

“I killed him,” Ares asserted forlornly.

Rikki walked over to Ares and placed his right hand on Ares’s left arm.

“You did not kill him, my brother. Don’t blame yourself.”

Ares stared at the Tiller again. “Dear Spirit!” he said.

Other Warriors and Family members were emerging from the Home.

“We can talk about this later,” Rikki offered.

Ares looked down at Rikki. “I want a Review.”

“You what?” Rikki responded in surprise.

“I want an official Warrior Review Board to call a hearing and rule on my actions,” Ares stated.

Rikki glanced at Yama, who frowned. “This isn’t necessary,” he told Ares.

“It is for me,” Ares countered. “I demand a Review Board, and as a Warrior it’s my right to have one.”

“But Blade is absent,” Rikki said. “He usually heads the Review Boards.”

“Don’t stall,” Ares responded. “Blade doesn’t need to be here for a Review Board to be held. Besides, with Alpha Triad gone, you’re in charge of the Warriors. You can call a Review Board. All you have to do is pick two other Warriors to sit on it with you.”

Rikki sighed. “This really isn’t necessary,” he reiterated.

Ares gazed at the dead Tiller, his anguished eyes betraying his intense inner turmoil. He turned to Rikki. “Please, Rikki. For my own peace of mind.”

Rikki was surprised by the distress Ares was suffering. Everyone had always considered Ares to be callous, to be impervious to any emotional affliction. They were certainly wrong. “I will call a Review Board for tomorrow,” he said.

“Thank you,” Ares stated, relieved. “I am in your debt.”

Bertha, Spartacus, Teucer, and a score of Family members reached the scene of the tragedy and clustered around, everyone asking questions at once.

Yama took hold of Lieutenant Farrow’s right hand. “We must get you to the Healers.”

Farrow reluctantly allowed herself to be led toward the drawbridge. She examined the ragged tear in her left forearm. “It’s no big deal,” she said.

“Who are you kidding?” Yama retorted, weaving through the gathering crowd.

“You might be needed here,” Farrow said.

“Rikki will handle it,” Yama declared. He grinned at her. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid of seeing the Healers?”

“I’m not too fond of having needles stuck into me,” Farrow acknowledged.

“Our Healers don’t use needles,” Yama informed her.

“What kind of medicine do they use?” Farrow asked.

“Herbal remedies, primarily,” Yama answered. “They employ a varied assortment of natural medicines.”

“And they don’t jab you with needles?” Farrow inquired.

“No.”

“Then how do you take your medicine?” she queried.

“Orally,” Yama responded. “Usually their remedies are incorporated into a tea. Otherwise, they make Pills.”

“And these remedies work?” Farrow asked.

“Every time,” Yama said, “and without the adverse reactions people often suffered before the Big Blast to artificial chemicals and stimulants.”

“Our scientists maintain herbal medicine is quackery,” Farrow commented without real conviction.

“Let the Healers treat you,” Yama proposed, “then you be the judge.”

They reached the drawbridge and started across. More Family members were hastening to the field. Sherry, Hickok’s wife, approached.

“What happened?” Sherry asked as she came abreast of Yama.

Yama nodded at Farrow’s left arm. “See Rikki. We must reach the infirmary.”

“I understand,” Sherry said, and ran off.

“Your Family is really tight-knit,” Farrow mentioned as they hastened in the direction of C Block.

“We’re taught in childhood to love one another,” Yama told her.

“Love? Isn’t that strange talk coming from a Warrior?”

Yama shook his head. “Why should the quality of love be incompatible with being a Warrior?”

“Because your whole purpose in life is to kill,” Farrow said. “You’re like me. A trained fighter. Killing is all we know.”

Yama paused and looked into her eyes. “If all you know is killing, I feel sorry for you.”

“I don’t need your sympathy!” Farrow snapped, withdrawing her hand from his.

Yama continued toward the infirmary.

“How do you do it?” Farrow asked, staying on his heels.

“Do what?”

“Justifying killing, if you think so highly of love?” Farrow inquired.

“All of the Warriors learn to love before they learn to kill,” Yama revealed. “Our early years with our parents and in the Family school are devoted to learning about love. What it is, how—”

“What is love?” Farrow interrupted.

“You don’t know?” Yama rejoined.

“I’m serious. What is love? There are so many definitions,” Farrow observed.

“We define love as doing good for others,” Yama disclosed. “It’s our golden rule. Do for others as you conceive your actions to be guided by the Spirit. Every child in the Family memorizes this teaching by the time they’re seven.”

“But if you’re all taught so much about love,” Farrow said, “how is it the Warriors become so adept at killing?”

“The Family exalts the ideal of spiritual love,” Yama stated, recalling his philosophy classes under Plato’s instruction. “Unfortunately, the rest of this crazy world doesn’t see it our way. If the Family is to survive in an insane world where violence is supreme and hatred is rampant, then some members must be willing to do whatever is necessary to preserve our Home and our ideals. The Warriors are skilled killers, true, but we only kill because we love our Family and want to safeguard them from the degenerates out there.” He waved toward the west wall.

“You kill because you love,” Farrow said thoughtfully. “That’s a new one.” She clamped her right hand over the wound on her left arm to stem the flow of blood. The mutant had torn a six-inch gash in her forearm, and although she was still bleeding, the blood flowing down her arm and dripping from her elbow, there wasn’t as much as before.

“We’re almost there,” Yama said, pointing at C Block.

“There’s no hurry,” Farrow said. “It’s almost stopped bleeding.”

“Tell me,” Yama stated. “Why do you kill?”

Farrow was taken unawares by the question. “I never gave it much consideration,” she admitted. “I guess I kill because I’m a professional soldier. It’s what I’m trained to do.”

“Do you like to kill?”

“Not particularly,” she confessed. “It’s my job.”

“Do you love the Technics?” Yama asked.

“Love the Technics? You mean the way you do the Family?” Farrow laughed. “Not hardly! They’re all so damn selfish and self-centered! There’s not much to love!”

They were nearly to the infirmary doorway. Yama stopped and stared at Farrow. “So you kill because it’s what they trained you to do, but you don’t really like killing and you don’t much like the Technics you kill for?”

Farrow did a double take. “I never looked at it that way.”

“What other way is there to look at it?” Yama retorted. “Frankly, I don’t see how you live with your soul.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at yourself. Take a good, hard look. You’re in a rut, stuck in a vocation you care little for, serving people you like even less. Where’s your sense of self-worth? Where’s your dignity as a cosmic daughter of our Maker?” He shook his head. “I don’t see how you do it.” He stepped to the doorway. “Come on.”

“Yama…” Farrow said tentatively.

He hesitated, standing in the doorway to the giant cement Block. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For saving my life back there,” Farrow said.

“You saved mine,” he reminded her.

“And…” she began groping for the right words, “and for opening a window.”

Now it was his turn to show bewilderment. “A window?”

“Yeah. A window to the soul I never knew I had.” Farrow smiled, genuine affection lighting her dark eyes. “Thank you,” she reiterated softly, gently.

Yama’s blue eyes touched hers. “Any time.”