Yellowstone Run

CHAPTER TWO

Blade folded his steely arms across his huge chest and glanced from the gunfighter to the Blackfoot, the two best friends he had. “I didn’t expect you guys to react this way.”

“What do you want me to do? Leap for joy?” Hickok quipped.

“Haven’t we discussed the subject enough already?” Geronimo responded.

“This is a man’s life we’re talking about here.” Blade noted. “His future is at stake. How can you dismiss him so lightly?”

“Easy as pie,” Hickok said.

Geronimo turned and gazed out over the survivalist retreat. “We’re not dismissing him. It’s just that we think you’re making a mistake if you nominate Achilles to be a Warrior.”

“Why?” Blade asked.

“We’ve been all through this, pard,” Hickok declared. “That uppity upstart doesn’t have the right temperament to be a Warrior. He’s too cocky for his own good.”

“Cockier than you?”

“Me? I’m as humble as they come.”

“Yeah. Right. And cows fly,” Blade said.

“Hickok’s right,” Geronimo interjected, then did a double take. “I don’t believe I just said that.”

“I am?” the gunman responded, and beamed.

Blade sighed. “Everybody and their grandmother seems to be dead set against Achilles becoming a Warrior. Plato doesn’t like the idea. You two are opposed. Even Rikki-Tikki-Tavi took me aside last night to express his reservations.

“Rikki too?” Geronimo said. “He’s one of the more levelheaded Warriors. What more proof do you need that your idea isn’t so hot?”

“Achilles is the best man for the job,” Blade insisted, and surveyed the compound, thinking of the vacancy in the ranks of the Warriors, a vacancy that had to be filled as quickly as possible. He disliked having the Warriors undermanned. When there was a manpower shortage, the other Warriors had to make up the slack by pulling extra duty, and extra duty meant more rotating schedules, less sleep, and impaired effectiveness. As the head Warrior, he preferred to have the people under him performing at 100 percent of their capability at alt times. With so many lives at stake, he could afford to demand nothing less than their very best.

Over 100 persons now resided at the compound that had been constructed by a wealthy survivalist named Kurt Carpenter shortly before the war. Carpenter had called his retreat the Home, and gathered together selected friends into a close-knit group he called the Family. For over a century the Family had lasted, despite the threats of madmen, scavengers, mutations, androids, drug lords, and others.

Carpenter, now referred to as the Founder by the Family members, had spared no expense with his considerable fortune in having the compound built. Predicting, that civilization would crumble after the war, and foreseeing mat his followers and their descendents would need to cope with a world driven insane by the devastating Armageddon, a world where barbarism would rule and law and order would no longer exist. Carpenter had constructed a veritable fortress. Sturdy brick walls, 20 feet high and topped with barbed wire, enclosed the site. Along the inside of each wall a deep trench had been dug, and using aqueducts, a stream had been diverted into the compound, entering under the northwest corner and exiting to the southwest. This inner moat was their second line of defense in case of a major assault by enemy forces.

In order that the Family would be adequately protected, the Founder had created the Warrior class. Divided into fighting arms designated Triads, there were currently 17 men, woman, and hybrids who had taken the Warrior Oath of Loyalty. One of their number had recently died, leaving Zulu Triad one man short.

“Do you really think the Elders will go along with your recommendation?” Geronimo inquired.

“They will if I can find someone to co-sponsor Achilles with me,” Blade said.

“Are you fixin’ to ask one of us?” Hickok queried.

“I was hoping one of you would make the offer on your own initiative,” Blade replied, and was discouraged by the silence that greeted his remark.

Candidates for Warrior status had to pass through an ordained selection process. First, an active-duty Warrior had to agree to act as a sponsor.

Usually only one sponsor was required, although there had been instances in the past where more than one active-duty Warrior had sponsored the same candidate. Once a candidate acquired a sponsor, then Blade would submit the candidate’s name to the Family Leader, Plato and the rest of the Elders. After carefully reviewing the candidate’s qualifications, the Elders would decree whether the candidate was acceptable or not. And if the hearsay getting back to Blade was true, Achilles might well be rejected.

Am I making a mistake? Blade asked himself. True, Achilles had attained a black belt in karate, but prowess in the martial arts was only one of the prerequisites for the post. It was also true that Achilles had qualified as an outstanding marksman, but marksmanship by itself meant very little. Where choosing a Warrior was concerned, personality and temperament were most important.

“Achilles will have to prove himself to me before I’ll agree to co-sponsor him,” Geronimo said.

“There isn’t any way that peacock can prove himself to my liking,” Hickok added. “He thinks he knows the answer to everything.”

Geronimo glanced at the gunman. “Just like someone else I know.”

“Like who?”

Blade cleared his throat. “What if Achilles could prove himself to your satisfaction? Would you vouch for him then?”

“How’s he going to accomplish that miracle?” Geronimo quipped.

“If he does my dirty laundry for a month, I might reconsider,” Hickok said.

“I thought Sherry washes your dirty clothes,” Geronimo mentioned.

“She does. But the way I figure it, the less time she has to spend doing laundry and such, the more time she has to spend cuddling with her favorite hunk.”

Blade took a step toward them. “You haven’t answered my question.”

The gunman shrugged. “Sure, pard. If you can figure a way for Achilles to prove himself to me, I’ll vouch for the yahoo.”

“The what?” Geronimo asked.

“A yahoo. If you had smarts like me, you’d know what the dickens a yahoo is.”

“I know what a yo-yo is. I work with one every day.”

“Quit callin’ Blade names. You know how touchy the big guy gets.”

“Why do I bother,” Blade mumbled. He pivoted and headed for the enormous concrete blocks due south of their position.

Kurt Carpenter had divided the compound into thirds. The eastern section was maintained in its natural state or devoted to agricultural pursuits. In the center of the Home, arranged in a row from north to south, were the log cabins for the married Family members. The western section contained six immense bunkers, each devoted to a specific purpose. They were aligned in a triangular formation. Farthest south stood A Block, the Family armory. One hundred yards to the northwest of the armory was B Block, the sleeping quarters for single members. C Block, another hundred yards to the northwest, served as the infirmary.

Due east of C Block a hundred yards was the Family’s carpentry shop and general-purpose construction facility, D Block. Located at the northeast apex of the triangle sat E Block, the library Carpenter had personally stocked with hundreds of thousands of books. And finally, 100 yards to the southwest, was F Block, the building utilized by the Tillers for storing their farming equipment, and also for preparing and preserving food.

“See what I mean about touchy?” Hickok said to Geronimo, and hurried after the giant. “Hey, pard. Wait for us.”

“Why should I?”

“Because we’re your best buddies.”

“Don’t remind me,” Blade said. “With buddies like you, who needs enemies?” He rested his hands on the hilts of his Bowies as he walked toward C Block, smiling and nodding at Family members he passed en route. The western third of the Home, particularly the wide track between the blocks, was where the Family congregated to socialize. Musicians sang or played their instruments, children laughed and played, and adults engaged in pleasant conversation. The weekly worship services were also conducted mere, and most Family meetings, when the weather permitted, were also held outdoors between the blocks.

Hickok and Geronimo caught up with their friend, walking on his left.

“What’s eatin’ you, pard?” the gunman inquired.

“Nothing.”

“You can’t fool me. I know something is bothering you.”

“Maybe I’m ticked off because no one seems to think I know what I’m doing,” Blade stated.

“Who said that? I’ll personally shoot their toes off.”

“You did.”

Hickok almost tripped over his own feet. “I did? I never said no such thing.”

“Neither of you believe Achilles would make a competent Warrior,” Blade pointed out.

“So?”

“So I do. And by disagreeing, you’re implying that I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The gunman and Geronimo exchanged glances.

“You’re blowin’ this thing out of all proportion. Just because we disagree with you doesn’t mean we think you’re a cow chip.”

“It’s the same thing, Nathan.”

“It is not,” Hickok responded defensively.

“Perhaps the real reason you’re upset is because everyone feels the same way we do,” Geronimo noted. “Maybe you’re just taking your frustration out on us.”

“Yeah. Not nice,” Hickok declared.

Blade looked at them. “Haven’t I done a fair job as the top Warrior?”

“You’re the best Warrior the Family has had in its entire history,” Geronimo answered.

“He can’t draw a six-shooter worth spit,” Hickok commented.

“Well, if I’m halfway proficient, then why is everyone doubting my judgment when I say that Achilles will make a damn good Warrior?” Blade snapped.

“It’s not that we have anything against you,” Hickok said. “It’s just that Achilles rubs practically everyone the wrong way.”

“Yeah,” Geronimo agreed. “He’s too…” he began, then abruptly stopped and cocked his head.

“What is it, pard?” Hickok inquired.

Geronimo gazed to the west. “Don’t you hear it?”

An instant later everyone in the compound heard the sound, a rumble resembling distant thunder. The rumble grew in volume dramatically, and in seconds became a deafening roar as a gleaming, silvery jet streaked over the Home, flashing past almost at treetop level, seeming to shake the very ground with the din from its passage. Banking to the north, the jet arced high into the sky and began to execute a wide loop.

“It’s the Hurricane,” Geronimo said absently.

“What the blazes is it doing here now?” Hickok asked. “I thought the regular courier run wasn’t until the day after tomorrow.”

“That’s the schedule,” Blade said, watching the technological marvel swing toward the Home and thinking of all the times he had ridden in the aircraft.

The Hurricane belonged to the Free State of California, an ally of the Family’s. Together they were but two of the seven factions comprising the Freedom Federation, an alliance formed when the leaders of the seven groups had signed a mutual self-defense treaty, resulting in a loose confederation of disparate members. California was one of the few states to retain its administrative integrity after the war, and due to the state’s abundant resources had been able to preserve a level of culture similar to the prewar society.

Other members of the Federation included the Flathead Indians, who now controlled the former state of Montana, and the Cavalry, superb horsemen who ruled the Dakota Territory. There were also the Moles, inhabitants of an underground city located in north-central Minnesota, and a group known as the Clan. Refugees from the Twin Cities, the Clan had intentionally resettled in the small town of Halma in northwestern Minnesota, not far from the Home, so they could be close to the Family.

The seventh Federation member was the Civilized Zone, an area embracing the former states of Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Oklahoma and part of Arizona and the northern half of Texas. The U.S. government had evacuated thousands of its citizens into the region during the war, and later, when the government collapsed, a dictator had seized power and renamed his dominion. Six years ago a descendant of the dictator had attempted to reclaim America as his own and been defeated, killed by Blade.

“I wonder why the Hurricane is here early,” Geronimo said.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Blade responded, his lips compressing.

A monthly courier service had been established, using the jets to carry correspondence and passengers from one Federation faction to the next.

Because of the vast distances between them, the only means the Federation members had of keeping in regular contact was through the Hurricanes. The pilots normally stuck to their assigned schedules like clockwork, and whenever they deviated from their route there had to be an excellent reason.

It usually meant trouble.

Hickok glanced at the giant. “Maybe they need you to take the Force on a mission.

“I hope not,” Blade said. “I’m not slated to return to California for another week and a half.”

The Freedom Force—or simply the Force, as most referred to the unit—was an elite tactical team formed by the Federation leaders to deal with any and all threats to Federation security. Composed of a volunteer from each faction, the Force could be dispatched on a moment’s notice to any point on the continent. Blade had agreed to serve as the head of the Force, and he alternated his time between the Home and the Force headquarters near Los Angeles. Recently he had adjusted his schedule so that he spent two weeks out of each month at the Home and two in L.A.

Eventually he hoped to reduce his Force workload to where he would only need to stay a week in California every month. He intensely disliked being away from his wife and son, and now, as he saw the Hurricane dropping in altitude, coming in for a landing, he clenched his brawny fists and scowled.

This could only mean one thing.

He was about to put his life on the line again.