The Fox Run

Chapter Twenty

Hours earlier, three Trolls departed Fox on a hunting trip, bearing north. Two of the Trolls carried bows, the third a Ruger 77 bolt-action rifle.

Blade, hidden in a strand of trees a hundred yards from the fence, saw them leave and promptly backed into the underbrush, putting more distance between the town and himself, insuring any watchers in Fox would not detect any movement as he turned north and went in pursuit of the hunting party.

This was the break he was waiting for!

Hickok, Geronimo, Joan, and the three from Badger—Clyde, Cindy, and Tyson—were with the SEAL. The transport was parked a mile west of Fox, hidden in the woods at the side of the highway. They had stopped there for the night, safe, though crowded, from prowling predators. Blade had decided to get a good night’s rest, and make their move on Fox the next morning. During the early morning hours before sunrise, as he slept fitfully, he formed a plan. At daybreak, after issuing final instructions to Hickok and Geronimo, he carefully crept as close to the Troll camp as he dared. The first part of his scheme involved getting into Fox undetected.

Unfortunately, he had to leave the Commando with Hickok. The Carbine would attract undue attention if he carried it into Fox. The Trolls had guns, but he seriously doubted they owned any firearm similar to the exclusive Commando.

Now, as he jogged in a northerly direction, hoping to reach a vantage point ahead of the Trolls, he worried about Jenny. Was she still alive? The situation, he reflected, was ironic. Only days ago, at the prospect of his leaving the Home for the Twin Cities, Jenny had cried in his arms as he offered words of encouragement. With her gone, he now appreciated how useless his optimistic outlook had probably sounded.

The forest northwest of the town was relatively thick, the ground level.

He made good time, dodging trees and bushes, his moccasins absorbing most of the noise as he ran. The Bowies jiggled against his hips and the Vega holsters flapped as he moved. He was wearing a green shirt for camouflage and faded jeans.

To insure success, he wanted to be at least a mile from Fox when he jumped the Trolls. If there were a struggle, if the Troll with the rifle managed to bring his weapon into play, anyone in Fox might assume the hunting party had bagged a deer.

He hoped.

The sun was already high and hot, sweat coating his body.

Blade was surprised when the forest abruptly ended. A hill, covered with boulders, rose in his path. He spotted a well-worn trail weaving up the hill to his right and he swerved, running at his maximum speed, alert for any sounds behind him, aware the Trolls couldn’t be far behind. A third of the way up the slope he found the location he sought, and he ducked behind a massive slab of stone.

None too soon.

Moments later, the three Trolls emerged from the trees. They were using the trail, engaged in animated conversation.

“—miss the testing! It isn’t fair!” The Troll with the Ruger was speaking.

“It’s your fault,” the tallest of the Trolls reminded him.

“Yeah,” agreed the other. “You’re the one who made Saxon angry. You knew he wanted the blonde.”

“What an idiot!” the tall Troll snapped.

“How was I supposed to know Saxon was standing behind me when I said it?” protested Ruger. “I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, you know.”

“You don’t have brains in your head either,” grumped the third Troll.

“Saying you wanted the blonde first!” The tall Troll laughed. “Dumb! Dumb! Dumb!”

“Because of you,” the third Troll said, pressing his compliant, “we’ll miss the testing and the feeding. Just because we were talking to you!”

“So Saxon sends us after game!” The tall Troll was obviously disgusted with the state of affairs. “Some day Saxon will go too far!”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Ruger advised.

“I hate hunting,” the tall Troll, walking behind Ruger and their companion as they climbed the hill, groused. “It’s so damn boring!”

Blade, perched on top of the slab of stone, grinned and launched himself into the air, catching the Trolls off guard, slamming into the first Troll and bowling him over, knocking him against the two following on his heels. All three Trolls tumbled to the hard ground.

“Look out!” one of the Trolls shouted as he fell.

Blade had calculated his leap, landing on his right shoulder on a patch of grass, rolling and coming to his feet with his Bowie knives drawn and ready.

The first Troll was nearest, on his hands and knees, pushing erect, his bow lying out of reach.

Blade buried his left Bowie in the Troll’s throat, crimson gushing over his arm. He released the knife, the terrified Troll frantically clutching at his destroyed neck.

Ruger was already on his feet, the rifle in his hands, hurriedly drawing the bolt back, chambering the next round.

Blade reached him in one bound, kicking his right leg up and out, battering the rifle aside. He swung the right Bowie in a wide arc, again going for the neck, feeling the keen edge bite deep as it severed the windpipe.

The tall Troll was coming at Blade, a knife held low in his left hand. “You bastard!” he screamed. “I’ll gut you!”

Blade gauged the distance, performing a feat he’d practiced countless times, sweeping his right arm all the way back, then forward, putting his entire body into the throw, the Bowie covering the three feet between them and imbedding in the Troll’s chest, penetrating the heart.

The Troll, stunned, stopped, staring in amazement at the hilt of the knife. He glanced at Blade, grinning weakly. “Neat trick,” he commented, before falling on his face.

Blade surveyed his handiwork. The tall Troll was still, but Ruger and the other were flopping and jerking spasmodically.

His plan was coming together nicely.

Blade bent over the tall Troll and removed his tunic and cloak, his nose balking at the rank odor from the Troll’s body. Didn’t the Trolls believe in bathing? He retrieved his Bowies, wiped the blades on the green grass, replaced them in their sheaths, removed his belt, and placed the big knives on the ground. Now came the hard part. Holding his breath, he pulled the tunic on over his broad shoulders, squirming as much from the tight fit as the stench. He adjusted the bear hide as best he could, rolling his pants up his legs until the jeans were obscured by the tunic. Next, he donned the cloak, fixing the Vega holsters so the guns were over the tunic but under the cloak. He strapped the Bowies around his waist, then removed the dagger from his calf and the one from his wrist and tucked them under his belt, out of sight. He was ready.

The trail the Trolls were following was apparently one used frequently by other Trolls over the years. It was clearly defined, enabling Blade to easily return along it to Fox. He reached an open area between the woods and the north fence and hesitated, hoping his disguise would hold up under close scrutiny. Lowering his head, he walked across the field, keeping his eyes on the fence, heading for the gate in the center of the barricade. What if there was a password? he wondered. What would he do then?

The sun was scorching the earth, rising in the morning sky.

Blade stopped at the gate, looking both ways, expecting to be challenged by guards.

He couldn’t believe it!

The gate was unattended.

Maybe, he reflected as he opened the rickety wooden gate and stepped through the portal, the Trolls felt secure in Fox, exactly as the Family believed they were safe in the Home before the Trolls showed them the error of their ways. Possibly no one had ever attacked Fox.

Blade paused, studying the decayed structures, listening. He knew Fox was crawling with Trolls; he’d seen them earlier when he was spying, waiting for his opportunity to nab a bearskin. So where were they at now?

In the distance, from the east, came a great shout and the sound of cheering.

“What in the world?”

Blade turned, making for the uproar. The streets were completely deserted. He could scarcely credit his good fortune. Whatever was distracting the Trolls was a godsend. Thank the Spirit!

One of the buildings drew his attention.

Blade walked to the front door, puzzled. Unlike the others, this edifice displayed signs of modest repair efforts. The door was intact, the windows covered with crude curtains. A hole in the wall was boarded over. Why?

Why this one building only?

Fox was still devoid of life.

Blade opened the door and entered, carefully waiting for his eyes to adapt to the subdued light before he closed the door and stepped across the room, startled to discover a desk and two chairs neatly arranged against the far wall. Someone, evidently, was utilizing this office on a regular basis. But who? And for what purpose?

On the oaken desk, meticulously stacked in separate piles, were several books and papers.

Blade picked up the papers and moved closer to one of the windows.

These papers were written by someone named Aaron, random notes about a facility he operated and criminals he was rehabilitating. Several entries were fascinating: one concerning the evacuation and the failure of their transportation to arrive, and another detailing the prospects of survival for Aaron’s charges if they could not relocate or find women. One item, in particular, stood out like the proverbial sore thumb: “If we are left on our own, must find women. None left in town. Must find women! ”

Blade leaned against the wall, insight flooding his mind. Now, at least, he understood the origin of the Trolls and comprehended their motivation for stealing women. One detail still eluded him, however. Why were they called Trolls? He walked to the desk and set the papers in their original position.

Outside, all was quiet.

Blade sorted through the books, seven in all. The majority dealt with psychology: Abnormal Psychology, Experimental Psychology, Psychological Testing, Current Psychotherapies, Counseling, Adjustment and Mental Health, and something titled My Nympho Aunt. Four drawers fronted the desk. He crouched, opening each drawer, discovering more papers, pencil stubs, and dusty paper clips. In the lower right drawer, hidden in the back under a pile of papers, was another book.

There was a candle on the desk, unlit, and he wasn’t about to light it even if he could. Too risky. He stood and returned to the nearest window, holding the thin book aloft to catch the available light.

There was the subdued sound of a commotion to the east, slowly drawing closer.

Blade grinned, amused by his latest find. It was a child’s book, the cover torn, the pages ragged, entitled The Three Billy Goats Gruff. He couldn’t recall this one being in the Family library. The book was cutely illustrated, and he flipped the pages, reading the simple print. When he came to the first mention of the troll, he paused, astonished. “It can’t be,” he inadvertently muttered.

But it was.

The plot was straightforward enough. Three billy goats wanted to cross a bridge. Under this bridge lived a nasty troll. The troll was not inclined to allow anyone across his bridge. The first two billy goats tricked the troll into permitting them to pass. But the third goat, the biggest and the strongest, confronted the troll and defeated him, strolling across the bridge. On the page where the goat beat the troll, scribbled in childlike print, faint, almost indistinguishable, were some personal comments added by a reader long, long ago: “Stupid book. The troll should have won. It was his bridge!”

Blade lowered the book, musing. Was it possible? Was this kid’s book the key to the Trolls’ identity? His imagination rambled. Had one of the early occupants of the state facility liked this book, and for whatever bizarre reason identified with the troll? Had this person prevailed upon his fellows to call themselves the Trolls? Possibly, after Aaron’s demise, this criminal assumed the mantle of leadership.

“We’ll just never know for sure,” Blade said to himself.

An abrupt clamor came from the surrounding streets.

Blade tossed the book onto the desk and quickly crossed to the door.

What was going on? He eased the door open several inches and peered out.

A great mass of Trolls was moving down one of the streets, talking and laughing.

Blade’s curiosity was aroused. He saw them enter a large building and disappear. Were the Trolls holding a meeting? This, required further investigation. He slipped outside, shut the door, and walked toward a building with two swinging doors, each twenty feet high and half as wide.

Why so big? he wondered. Probably, before the war, machinery and vehicles had utilized it as an entry and exit point.

Somewhere, a bird was chirping.

Blade reached the swinging doors, glanced both ways, and entered the structure. He memorized the layout, his tactical training ingrained, noting the packed bleachers, the central pen, and four gaping squares high up on each wall, busted windows, the edges lined with spikes of pointed glass.

Most of the Trolls were already seated.

Blade hefted the cloak, covering his head as many of the Trolls did, hoping his hair, visible above his forehead, wouldn’t give him away. He took a deep breath and climbed into the bleachers, bearing left.

The Trolls were obviously excited, concentrating on the pen and jabbering happily.

Blade caught snatches of conversation as he ascended the bleachers: “…watch them crack the bones…” “…Wolvie will make mincemeat out of her…” “…a waste of good flesh…”

An expanse of vacant bleacher arrested his attention, and he sat down, glad the Trolls were ignoring him. He studied the crowd, sweeping the arena, his gray eyes widening in alarm when he spotted the Family women and the giant Troll. Instinctively, his left hand crept toward the Bowie on his left hip, his mind racing. What was transpiring? Were the women in danger?

The colossal Troll was talking to the women, the words too faint for Blade to gather their meaning.

He didn’t like this! He didn’t like this one bit!

The Trolls were whispering and fidgeting.

Why?

Blade stood, his blood rushing, forcing himself to casually move down the bleachers in the direction of the women. If something did happen, he wanted to be as close as possible. The Trolls might be superior numerically, but before he would allow harm to befall the women, he would give a good accounting.

To the delight of the Trolls, and to Blade’s consternation, ominous growls emanated from behind a gate in the north wall of the pen.

Blade experienced a sinking feeling, certain he wouldn’t reach the women before something terrible happened.

He was right.

Twelve rows still separated him from them when the huge Troll raised his head and yelled: “Life to the strong and death to the weak!”

The Trolls, galvanized by the phrase, followed his lead: “Life to the strong and death to the weak!”

Blade surged ahead, bowling Trolls from his path, prompting angry outbursts and curses.

The giant suddenly gripped Angela and threw her into the pen.

No! Blade was six rows from them when Jenny stood and jumped after Angela.

Damn!

Blade changed direction, making for the pen, realizing the north gate was open, glimpsing a large animal crouching on the earthen floor.

Jenny!

Blade knocked the remaining Trolls aside and dove into the pen.