Armageddon Run

by David Robbins

  “What about Rainbow, Star’s mother?”

  Blade glanced at Geronimo. Would it be wise to divulge the whole story? How Rainbow had led them to Kalispell under the pretext of locating desperately needed medical supplies, when all she really wanted to do was steal the SEAL? How she had shot Geronimo, and herself been shot by soldiers from the Civilized Zone? No. It was unnecessary to elaborate now. He could always tell them the full truth later, after the upcoming battle was over. “Rainbow passed on to the higher mansions,” Blade replied.

  “But Star is all right?” Red Cloud queried.

  “Star has been adopted by our Leader and his wife,” Blade explained.

  “Plato and Nadine are taking excellent care of her.”

  “Plato? What an odd name,” Red Cloud remarked.

  “He took it from a book,” Blade stated.

  “A book? I don’t understand.”

  “We call it our Naming,” Blade elaborated. “It’s a special ceremony every Family member goes through when they turn sixteen. We are encouraged to go through the books in our vast library and select whatever name we want for our own. The Founder of our Home started the practice. He wanted us to always be aware of our history, so we wouldn’t find ourselves committing the same stupid blunders our ancestors did, the mistakes which led to World War Three. Most of us pick names from our history or literature books. Some of us take a name of our own choosing.”

  “I have never heard of such a thing,” Red Cloud stated.

  Lynx suddenly appeared at Red Cloud’s left elbow, and the Flathead inadvertently recoiled in shock.

  “What’s the matter, chuckles?” Lynx chattered.

  “Don’t you like kitty cats?”

  Red Cloud and the rest of the Flatheads were gazing at Lynx in wide-eyed stupefaction. “What are you?” Red Cloud blurted out.

  “Don’t you know?” Lynx retorted.

  “My people call you, and the other creatures like you, demons,” Red Cloud answered. “We have heard fantastic tales about the Doktor, about how he creates you out of the thin air to do his evil bidding.”

  Lynx shook his head. “Someone’s been feedin’ you a line, dimples. The Doktor creates us, sure, but he does it from test-tubes. Ever heard of genetic engineering?”

  “No,” Red Cloud admitted. “My parents taught me to read, and I did own a dozen or so books, but I never heard of genetic engineering. What is it?”

  At that moment, Orson ran up, holding a key chain in his left hand.

  “Look at what I found,” he announced.

  Blade took the keys and knelt in front of Red Cloud. There were seven keys on the chain; with the third key, the shackles came unlocked.

  Red Cloud reached down and placed his right hand on Blade’s left shoulder. “Thank you. For this act of kindness, you have my undying friendship.”

  Blade stood, smiling. “I would be honored to consider you a friend.” He handed the keys to Red Cloud. “Would you like to finish freeing the rest of them?”

  Red Cloud beamed from ear to ear. “I would!” He turned and walked to the nearest prisoner.

  “So what’s next?” Geronimo inquired.

  Blade thoughtfully stroked his chin. “We’ll give them some of the weapons we’ve confiscated, and let them take the two troop transports and the jeep—

  “Why don’t we keep the jeep for ourselves?” Orson asked, interrupting.

  “It’s too crowded in that SEAL of yours with all seven of us inside. Why not let a couple of us ride in the jeep?”

  “Could you drive it?” Blade demanded, his jaw muscles tightening.

  “No,” Orson confessed. “But I know Hickok could, ’cause he drove the SEAL part of the way here. Let him do it.”

  “We all stay in the SEAL,” Blade declared.

  “When we have a jeep we could use?” Orson countered. He snorted derisively. “Sounds like a dumb idea, if you ask—”

  Orson never completed his sentence.

  In a blur of motion, Blade stepped up to Orson and gripped the malcontent by the front of his flannel shirt. Blade’s powerful muscles rippled as he heaved, lifting Orson an inch off the ground. Orson dropped his shotgun and frantically attempted to break Blade’s iron hold, to no avail.

  Lynx laughed.

  Blade’s lips were a compressed line as he stared into Orson’s eyes.

  “Listen to me, Orson, and listen good,” he said, his voice harsh and grating. “I won’t tolerate any more back talk out of you. The fact that you were forced to come along on this assignment doesn’t give you the right to be impudent. From now on, when I say we’re going to do something a certain way, then that’s the way we’ll do it. And I don’t want any sass out of you.”

  Orson’s bearded face was a bright red.

  “Now if you have any objections,” Blade stated with a hint of menace in his tone, “speak right up. We’re going to settle this here and now. The lives of all of us will depend on how well each of us follows orders when we reach Catlow. If I can’t rely on you, I don’t want you with us.”

  Blade released Orson and shoved. Orson stumbled backward for several steps before he regained his balance. He rubbed his neck, glowering at Blade.

  “Wipe that scowl off your face,” Blade threatened, “or I’ll do it for you!”

  Orson gulped and managed a feeble grin. “I didn’t mean anything by what I said!”

  “What’s it going to be?” Blade angrily demanded. “Are you with us or not? If you want out, just say the word. I’ll send you with the Flatheads.”

  “I’ve got to stay,” Orson whined. “Wolfe will have me killed if I leave.”

  “If you stay,” Blade warned him, “you’ll do what I tell you, when I tell you, with no lip. Is that understood?”

  Orson nodded.

  “I can’t hear you,” Blade said.

  “I understand,” Orson shouted.

  Blade picked up the shotgun and tossed it to Orson. “I want you to walk south a couple of hundred yards. Keep your eyes peeled. If you see anything coming our way, report back on the double. Move!”

  Orson whirled and hurried away.

  Lynx was beaming. “I like your style, big guy! You should have punched his lights out, though.”

  “If we didn’t need Orson in Catlow,” Geronimo interjected, “you can bet Blade would have.”

  Rudabaugh walked up. “Was Orson being a bad boy again?”

  Blade simply nodded.

  “So what’s next?” Geronimo asked one more time.

  “Like I was saying,” Blade said, “we’ll give the Flatheads the jeep and the two troop transports, as well as some of the weapons. I’ll give them explicit directions so they can join up with our main column.” He paused and glanced at Red Cloud, who was still busy releasing his fellow Flatheads. “Hey, Red Cloud!”

  Red Cloud looked at Blade. “Yes?”

  “Can any of your people drive a vehicle?”

  Red Cloud nodded. “Some of us were assigned to the garbage detail in the Citadel about a month ago. They forced us to drive their garbage trucks to the dump. Under guard, of course. Why?”

  “I’ll explain after a bit,” Blade said.

  “After they leave, what then?” Geronimo inquired.

  “We proceed as originally planned,” Blade responded. “We’ll drive to Catlow, subdue the garrison there, and send our message to the Doktor.”

  “Message? What kind of message?” Rudabaugh asked.

  Blade grinned. “We’re going to send the good Doktor an invitation to tea.”

  Chapter Two

  He couldn’t get the images out of his mind.

  No matter how hard he tried.

  All he kept seeing, repeating over and over again, were vivid scenes of death and destruction. A tremendous battle, the ultimate conflict between good and evil. Thousands upon thousands died on both sides, the innocent as well as the guilty.

  And it was all his fault.

  He had formulated the initial pla
n, and set the wheels of combat in motion. Whatever happened next, the outcome would be on his shoulders.

  Maybe he should have waited for the Doktor to make the next move.

  Maybe he should have upgraded the fortifications protecting the Home and waited for the Doktor to show up.

  “Plato, it’s getting late.”

  Plato sighed and shook his head, clearing the cobwebs, his reverie shattered. “What did you say?” he absently asked.

  The speaker was standing on the bank of the moat in the northwestern corner of the 30-acre plot known as the Home. The moat was a stream, diverted under the northwestern corner of the 20-foot-high brick walls surrounding the Home. The stream was channeled along the base of the inside of the walls, providing a secondary line of defense as well as the essential water for the inhabitants of the Home, the descendants of followers of a wealthy survivalist named Kurt Carpenter. They called themselves the Family, and at the moment, their aged Leader, Plato, was supervising a special project. The stream entered the Home through an aqueduct in the northwestern corner, with half of the water flowing to the south and the remaining volume flowing to the east. Eight-foot-deep trenches carried the water along the four walls until they merged in the southeastern corner and exited the Home via another aqueduct. In addition to the walls and the moat, strands of barbed wire were strung all across the top of the wall to impede potential attackers. Of the six huge concrete blocks Kurt Carpenter had had constructed on the property, one of them was a well-stocked armory. Carpenter had known civilization would revert to bestial levels after World War III, and he had wanted his beloved Family to be prepared to repel any assault on the Home. He had tried to project probabilities and cover every contingency.

  But he had left one weak spot.

  Actually, two.

  Plato stared at the stream while seated on a small boulder, watching the water rush past, wondering why Carpenter hadn’t thought to install a screen or grid over the aqueducts to prevent anyone or anything from gaining entry to the Home by swimming through them.

  Live and learn.

  Twice the Family had been attacked inside the compound, and it wasn’t until after the second attack that Blade had deduced the faulty link in the Family’s armor. First, some time back, a mutated frog had leaped from the moat and savagely assailed some nearby Family members. Then, only recently, two of the nefarious Doktor’s deadly genetic assassins had invaded the Home. One of them had let it slip that they had gotten into the Home by swimming. It didn’t require a genius to ascertain their method.

  Plato glanced at the four men in the moat near the aqueduct. They were putting the finishing touches on the large screen they had attached to the interior aqueduct opening.

  “It’s getting late,” the speaker on the bank reiterated. “It will be dark soon. Should we wait until morning to put the other screen on the southeastern aqueduct?”

  Plato looked at the speaker, a tall man with blue eyes and short blond hair. He wore a brown shirt and buckskin pants, as well as the traditional Family footwear: moccasins. Strapped to his waist was a long broadsword, just one of the many unusual and exotic weapons Kurt Carpenter had stocked in the Family armory. Plato grinned. “The aqueducts haven’t had a screen on them in the one hundred years since World War Three,” he said. “One more night won’t hurt. Yes, we’ll wait until daylight to complete our task, Spartacus.”

  Spartacus nodded. “Wrap it up!” he shouted to the four men in the moat. “We’ll be doing the second one tomorrow.” He faced Plato, noting the Leader’s haggard appearance and the stringy condition of Plato’s long gray hair and beard. Plato’s clothes, kept in spotless condition by his wife, Nadine, consisted of faded tan trousers and a buckskin shirt. “What were you thinking about just now?” he inquired.

  “Nothing much,” Plato said evasively.

  “Come on,” Spartacus rejoined. “I’ve seen that look before. You’re worried about Blade and the others, right?”

  Plato sighed and frowned. “Of course.”

  “Try not to think about it,” Spartacus advised.

  “If only it were so easy,” Plato said wearily.

  “You did what you had to do,” Spartacus pointed out.

  “That’s what I keep telling myself,” Plato said. “But it doesn’t seem to help much.”

  “Blade is a Warrior,” Spartacus noted. “He knew what he was getting into. He knows the risks involved. It’s all part of being a Warrior.”

  Plato absently nodded. A Warrior.

  The Founder of the Home, Kurt Carpenter, had been a firm believer in social equality. To that end, he had instituted a practice whereby each and every Family member would receive an official title. Whether it was Tiller, Empath, Warrior, or one of the others, every Family member would be assured equal social footing. Of the over 6 dozen Family members now alive, 15 had been selected as Warriors, the defenders of the Home and the protectors of the Family. The 15 were divided into 5 Triads of 3 Warriors apiece. These 5 Triads were known as Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Omega, and Zulu. Each Triad had a head or leader, but the head of Alpha Triad, Blade, was the chief Warrior, responsible for the Home’s security. Blade, Hickok, and Geronimo comprised Alpha Triad, and since they and Beta Triad were currently away from the Home, Spartacus, as the head of Gamma Triad, had become the chief Warrior in their absence.

  Spartacus walked over to Plato and gently placed his right hand on Plato’s narrow shoulder. He had never seen the Family’s Leader look so sad. “Cheer up!” he stated as happily as he could. “Everything will work out.”

  “I hope so,” Plato said softly.

  “Hey! What’s the matter? Aren’t you the one who is always telling us to have faith?”

  Plato gazed up at Spartacus. “If it’s spiritual enthusiasm you want, I suggest you see Joshua.”

  “I haven’t seen Joshua around lately,” Spartacus noted.

  “Neither have I, come to think of it,” Plato said thoughtfully.

  “So what’s got you so down in the dumps?” Spartacus said, pressing the issue. “The senility?” he queried tactlessly.

  “It has been affecting me greatly of late,” Plato divulged. “If only we could find a cure…”

  A mysterious form of premature senility had befallen the Family. The Family records indicated that each previous generation had had a shorter life expectancy than the one before it. Some of the Family Elders were now showing unmistakable symptoms of the senility, and Plato was one of them. Although not quite 50 years of age, Plato looked the way a 70-year-old man would have looked in the days before World War III.

  “You’ll find a cure,” Spartacus predicted. “With all that medical and scientific equipment Blade and Geranimo brought back from Kalispell, and the help you’re getting from Gremlin, you should find a cure real soon.”

  “Those four hardbound notebooks Yama found at the Citadel are proving to be of more help than the scientific instruments,” Plato noted.

  He had sent Yama, one of the Warriors from Beta Triad, on a spying mission to the Cheyenne Citadel. While there, Yama had managed to steal four notebooks belonging to the Doktor. He’d also rescued one of the Doktor’s genetically engineered creations, Lynx, from certain death. Before they had fled the Citadel, Yama and Lynx had destroyed the Doktor’s headquarters.

  “What did you find in those notebooks?” Spartacus asked.

  “Much of it is over our heads,” Plato replied, “but we are still in the process of examining them. They’re written in the Doktor’s own longhand, and he doesn’t have the most legible writing in the world. A lot of the contents concern highly technical medical and scientific experiments and data.”

  “Are the rumors I hear true?” Spartacus inquired. “About the Doktor being so old?”

  Plato’s brow furrowed and he scratched his neck. “If the dates in the notebooks are correct,” he said slowly, “then the Doktor is one hundred and twenty-seven years old.”

  “Is it possible? How could he be that old? He w
ould have been alive before World War Three started.”

  “The Elders have researched the matter thoroughly,” Plato detailed.

  “We’ve consulted pertinent books in the library.” One of the concrete blocks was devoted entirely to housing the library Kurt Carpenter had amassed for his followers, hundreds of thousands of books on every conceivable subject. “We discovered references to a number of individuals who lived beyond the century mark before World War Three. True, they were the exception rather than the rule. But the records conclusively prove that living to a hundred, or beyond, is possible. The Doktor seems to have devoted considerable energy and his brilliant mind to discovering a viable way of achieving that goal. Apparently, before the war, some scientists had discovered biochemical causes for aging. They had identified two substances in particular, oxyradicals and peroxide, as crucial to the aging process. These substances are formed from oxygen. They’re emitted by the red blood cells in the body as the cells carry oxygen through our system.

  Nature requires us to use oxygen for energy, but it turns against us in our later years. When we’re young and healthy, like you, the body is able to resist the onslaught of the oxyradicals and the peroxide. But when we’re older, the oxyradicals and peroxide gain the upper hand by causing the destruction of our red blood cells. Are you following me on this?”

  “Uhhhh, not really,” Spartacus confessed.

  “Well, suffice it to say the Doktor hit upon a technique to inhibit the development of the oxyradicals and the peroxide, thereby drastically reducing the rate of which he aged.”

  “What kind of technique?” Spartacus asked, his curiosity aroused.

  “Transfusions,” Plato answered, “in conjunction with a unique chemical he synthesized.”

  “Transfusions?” Spartacus repeated. “Isn’t that where you take the blood from one person and give it to another?”

  “Precisely. And in the Doktor’s case, he uses the blood of infants.”

  Spartacus grimaced in revulsion. “Babies? You mean he uses blood from babies?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Plato confirmed. “His notebooks indicate he has used the blood of thousands of babies over the decades.”