Spartan Run

CHAPTER ONE

The giant clasped the steering wheel loosely, his seven-foot tall frame relaxed as he skillfully threaded the huge van he was driving through a gauntlet of gaping potholes and wide cracks that marred the crumbling surface of the aged highway. A comma of dark hair hung above his penetrating gray eyes. His bulging muscles threatened to burst the seams of his black leather vest and his green fatigue pants. Combat boots covered his feet. Strapped around his lean waist were two big Bowie knives, a matched set, snug in sheaths on either hip.

“We should be there within a few hours,” commented the small, wiry man in the front passenger seat. He was dressed all in black, his features revealing an Oriental heritage. He rested his right hand on the hilt of the sword propped between his legs and draped his left arm on the console between his seat and the giant’s. His eyes and hair were both dark.

“At least we’ll be in the general vicinity, Rikki,” responded the driver.

“If the man spoke the truth.”

“Why would he have lied?”

“Who knows, Blade?” answered the man in black.

“Maybe he concocted the whole story for the benefit of the Cavalry, to make them feel sorry for him so they’d permit him to stay in their territory.”

Blade smiled and studied the small man’s features. “Becoming cynical in your young age, huh?”

“Realistic. Honor and truth are dying ideals in the Outlands. Out here people live by their wits or their brawn. The survival of the fittest is the unwritten law of the land.”

A chuckle came from behind them. “Don’t let him fool you, Blade. He’s a grump because Lexine got on his case about doing this.”

Hie giant glanced over his right shoulder at the man occupying the seat running the width of the vehicle. Six feet in height, the speaker wore forest-green apparel. His hair and beard were both blond. The former was tied into a ponytail with a thin strip of leather. The latter had been neatly trimmed and jutted forward on his pointed chin. His green eyes perpetually danced with an inner mirth, an unrestrained zest for life.

Propped on the seat to his right was a Ben Pearson compound bow. Lying next to his left leg was a quiver filled with arrows. “How do you know, Teucer?” Blade inquired.

“I overheard part of their conversation when I was waiting at the SEAL for you to arrive,” the bowman said. “Lexine told him he’s going on a wild-goose chase.”

“Your ears are quite keen,” Rikki remarked. “It would be a pity if you were to lose them.”

Teucer laughed. “You’ve been hanging around Hickok too much. Now you’re beginning to sound like him.”

The small man looked at Blade. “I trust you had a good reason for bringing him along?” he asked dryly.

“Teucer is one of the few Warriors who hasn’t been on a regular run yet. This trip will be an invaluable training experience, a chance to hone his skills.”

“Just so he hones his tact.”

Blade stared at the diminutive martial artist for a moment, then concentrated on his driving. He’d never seen Rikki-Tikki-Tavi so tense before, and he realized how much the trip must mean to the Family’s perfected swordmaster. He thought of the 30-acre compound located in the extreme northwest corner of the state once known as Minnesota, the walled retreat constructed by the wealthy survivalist just prior to the nuclear holocaust and dubbed the Home. He also thought about the descendant of the Founder and his companions, the friends and loved ones Blade knew as the Family, and in particular he dwelled on his wife and young son, Jenny and Gabe. A twinge of guilt gnawed at his conscience for leaving them yet again to venture into the hostile Outlands, the vast regions not under the jurisdiction of any organized faction.

But how could he have turned Rikki down?

As one of the martial artist’s best friends, and as the one Warrior who had gone into the Outlands time and time again and knew the savage domains better than anyone, he could hardly refuse to help.

And there was another reason, out of the 18 Family members selected to be Warriors, to defend the Home and protect the Family, Blade was the leader. He had a responsibility to those under him. Plus there was the fact Rikki would have gone by himself if no one else went along, and even the highly seasoned Warriors found surviving in the Outlands a strenuous task. What with scavengers, the crazies, mutations, and assorted cutthroats roaming all over the countryside, a sole Warrior could easily be slain.

Blade didn’t want to lose Rikki.

He recalled the recent death of another Warrior, a novice named Marcus, who had perished in the Outlands while on a rescue mission, and he inwardly vowed that none of them would die on this run.

“Where exactly are we?” Teucer inquired.

“Rikki has the map,” Blade noted, skirting yet another yawning pit in the center of the road. Although the highways were in deplorable condition, having suffered over a century of neglect and abuse by the elements, they were easier than going overland, even for the SEAL.

The Solar-Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle had been the brainchild of the Family’s Founder, Kurt Carpenter. He’d wisely foreseen that conventional cars and trucks would become largely obsolete after World War Three; fuel would be scarce and spare parts virtually impossible to obtain. So he’d spent millions to have the SEAL developed by automotive experts who believed they were creating the “recreational vehicle of the future.” Carpenter had never revealed his ulterior motive.

Eventually the experts had produced a remarkable prototype. Green in hue and van-like in configuration, the SEAL incorporated a number of unique features. The body was composed of a special heat-resistant, shatterproof plastic that had been tinted so no one could see inside. The floor was an impervious metal alloy. A powerful air-cooled, self-lubricating engine enabled the transport to attain speeds in excess of one hundred miles per hour. The tires were immense.

Especially unique was the power source: the sun. A pair of solar panels attached to the roof of the SEAL collected the sunlight, and the energy was then converted and stored in a bank of six revolutionary batteries housed in a leadlined case under the vehicle. So long as the solar panels weren’t damaged or the battery casings weren’t cracked, the SEAL would have a constant source of energy.

Kurt Carpenter had taken the innovations a step further. After the prototype was completed, he’d brought the SEAL to other specialists, to mercenaries versed in the art of war, and instructed them to transform the vehicle into an armed dreadnought. This they’d readily, done.

Four toggle switches on the dashboard activated lite armaments. There were two 50-caliber machine guns hidden in recessed compartments mounted on the roof above the driver’s seat with others in reserve. Called Stingers, the missiles were heat-seeking and had a range of ten miles. The mercenaries had also outfitted the SEAL with a flamethrower positioned at the front, behind the fender. When the proper toggle was thrown, a portion of the fender lowered and the flamethrower’s nozzle extended six inches and engaged. Finally, secreted in the center of the front grill was a rocket launcher.

Without the SEAL, Blade reflected, the Family would never have been able to send the Warriors out from time to time to make contact with other outposts of civilization.

Like they were doing now.

“We’re in northeastern Iowa,” Rikki stated, the map spread open on his lap. “The road we’re on is State Highway 76.” He gazed out his open window at the rugged terrain. “This region was the least inhabited part of the state. They called it the Switzerland of America because of all the hills and cliffs. East of us is the Mississippi River, twenty or thirty miles away at the most. West of this region is prime farming land. Three glaciers, leveled that area ages ago and left fertile topsoil in their wake.”

“Been doing some studying, I take it?” Teucer remarked.

Rikki nodded. “Once the Cavalry told us about the man they found and relayed his tale, I decided to do some research.”

Blade listened attentively. He’d also conducted background research after being contacted by the leader of the Cavalry, Kilrane. Occupying the Dakota Territory, which embraced the former states of North and South Dakota, the Cavalry was one of six factions allied with the Family in the Freedom Federation. They lived much as did their frontier ancestors, and they were renowned for their superlative horsemanship.

“Are there any towns nearby?” Teucer asked.

“A few. Not far ahead we should find a secondary road that leads to the small town of Dorchester. If we go straight, in six or seven miles we should come to the Upper Iowa River.”

“But there’s no mention on the map of a town named Sparta?” Teucer asked.

“No,” Rikki answered, and sighed.

“Maybe your wife is right,” Teucer said. “This is a wild goose chase.”

“Perhaps.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

Rikki twisted in his seat to stare at the bowman. “Be my guest.”

“Why is this so important to you? What does it matter to you if a new Sparta has arisen?”

Blade waited expectantly for the martial artist’s answer. When the message from Kilrane had arrived at the Home, he’d been surprised at Rikki’s reaction. The normally cool-headed Warrior had been all set to take off immediately to ascertain the truth. Blade suspected Rikki’s enthusiasm had something to do with the time they’d been in Memphis.

Rikki had mentioned meeting a man who claimed to be from Sparta, a new city-state that had arisen since the war, but he’d never disclosed the details of that meeting.

“I made a promise to a dying man once,” Rikki said. “And I intend to keep that promise.”

“Mind if I ask who?”

“A man who went by the same of Thayer, a former Spartan who was exiled for abandoning his post.”

“Where’d you meet this guy?”

“In Memphis.”

“How’d he die?”

“I killed him.”

“Oh.”

Blade looked at Rikki’s inscrutable face, then at the highway. This was news to him. He resolved to get to the truth of the matter at the earlier opportunity. “I hope we do find these Spartans,” Blade mentioned. “We could always use another ally in the Federation.”

“If they’ll join,” Teucer said.

“I don’t see why they wouldn’t. It would be in their best interest to sign the mutual defense pact. They’d be able to trade with the Civilized Zone and the Free State of California for goods impossible to find in the Outlands. And they’d have friends they could rely on should they be attacked,” Blade stated.

“Everyone should have friends,” Teucer observed philosophically, and as was his habit, launched into a poem.

“Who wrote that?” Blade queried.

“A poet named Alexander MacLean.”

“Cute,” Blade said.

Teucer sat up. “Cute? Poetry is more than merely cute. Poetry is an expression of the soul, an attempt to reach out for spiritual values. Poetry is language at its most beautiful.” He paused. “Poetry is artistic expression.”

“Excuse me for living,” Blade mattered.

“Why do you like poetry so much?” Rikki asked the bowman.

“I’ve been hooked on it since I was a kid. My mom read me a poem every night when she tucked me into bed. I guess I learned to appreciate it fully,” Teucer responded, and glanced at the grant. “Unlike some people I can think of.”

Blade knew the remark was directed at him and grinned, then turned serious. “Rikki, what do you know about these Spartans?”

“Not a great deal. Apparently their society is patterned after ancient Sparta. Like their namesakes, they’re a war-oriented culture.”

“This Spartan you knew. What was he like?”

“One of the best fighters I’ve ever encountered. He was my equal at hand-to-hand.”

“Really?” Teucer interjected. “You’re the best martial artist in the Family.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Rikki replied. “Blade and Yama are as talented as I am.”

“Blade maybe,” Teucer agreed. “But as good as Yama is, he’s not quite in your class.”

Rikki smiled for the first time in hours. “Tell that to Yama.”

“No way. I’m not about to commit suicide.”

For a minute they rode in silence. The condition of the highway improved marginally.

Blade idly surveyed the trees lining both sides of the road, his left elbow resting on the window, the air stirring his hair. He estimated the temperature to be in the seventies. Not bad for the first week in November. The weather had been exceptionally mild for weeks, and all of the trees still bore their leaves.

A slight curve appeared ahead.

Slowing marginally, Blade negotiated the curve with ease, alert for the cutoff to Dorchester and debating whether they should check out the town. A flutter of wings to his left drew his attention to five crows flapping into the air, and when he faced front again his eyes widened in alarm and he went rigid.

Not 30 feet distant, racing directly toward the SEAL, terror showing on her face, was a young woman.