Liberty Run

by David Robbins

  The officer nodded. Vigorously.

  “Good. I want you to think about something. If you refuse to answer, if you value loyalty more than your life, no one is ever going to know how brave you were! Your buddies, your comrades, will never know how you died! You’ll have died in vain! Think about it. And about this. If you cooperate, I’ll give you a canteen and some jerky and let you go. My word on it. We’ve released prisoners before. We’re not butchers, like you. We don’t kill innocent women. But, as the Spirit is my witness, I will gut you like a fish if you don’t give me the answers I need.” Blade unceremoniously dumped the Russian on the cot.

  The officer landed on his left side. He coughed and sputtered, rubbing his neck, gaping at the giant Warrior.

  Blade held the right Bowie out, slowly moving his wrist back and forth, allowing the light to gleam off the blade. “What’s your name?”

  “Lysenko,” the officer instantly replied. “Lieutenant Frol Lysenko.”

  “Why were you sent here?” Blade demanded.

  “To capture one of your Family alive and transport them to Washington,” Lysenko responded.

  “How were you going to get back?” Blade asked.

  “By helicopter,” Lysenko said.

  Blade pondered a moment. “Is this helicopter waiting for you or are you supposed to signal it?”

  “Signal,” Lysenko disclosed.

  “How are you to signal it?” Blade queried. “Be specific.”

  “We have a portable radio transmitter stashed about ten miles southeast of here,” Lysenko answered.

  Blade contemplated his next question. He was excited about the transmitter. If the radio could be retrieved, the Family would be able to monitor the Soviet broadcasts and perhaps learn information crucial to the continued safety of the Freedom Federation. “How did you discover the location of the Home?”

  Lysenko almost laughed. He hesitated for a fraction, then recoiled in fear as the Bowie slashed toward his abdomen. “The spy!” he screamed.

  “The spy!”

  Blade halted his stroke inches from Lysenko’s stomach. His brow creased. “Spy? What spy?”

  “We have a spy stationed in Denver,” Lysenko revealed.

  Blade straightened. A spy in Denver? In the capital of the Civilized Zone, one of the Family’s allies? “What’s the name of this spy?”

  “I don’t know,” Lysenko said. He saw Blade’s arm tense. “Honest! I really don’t! General Malenkov never told me. All I know is a spy infiltrated the government of President Toland about a month ago, and has been feeding us classified information ever since.”

  Blade and Plato exchanged glances. President Toland was the duly elected leader of the Civilized Zone, and one of the few people aware of the Home’s exact location. Many persons knew the Home was in Minnesota, but Minnesota contained almost 80,000 square miles. Anyone searching for the compound could waste a decade in the hunt and still come up empty.

  “You mentioned General Malenkov,” Blade noted. “Is this the same Malenkov Hickok encountered when he was in Washington, D.C.?”

  Lysenko nodded. “Hickok’s escape embarrassed the general. It was so public… so spectacular. And so many lives were lost! The general hates your Family. He wants you eliminated.”

  Blade nearly grinned. General Malenkov’s reaction was understandable.

  Hickok, with his usual flair for mayhem, had stirred up the proverbial hornet’s nest in the former American capital. “All right. You stay put. I’ll be back to question you some more later.” He glanced at Geronimo.

  “Escort him to the bathroom. Then park him here until further notice.”

  “You’ve got it,” Geronimo said.

  Blade looked at Plato, then nodded toward the doorway.

  Plato followed the Warrior chief outside into the bright sunlight.

  “Is there anything you want me to ask him?” Blade inquired.

  “Not offhand,” Plato said. “We are already familiar with the Soviet system, and cognizant of their logistical and industrial problems, thanks to Nathan.” He paused. “We must contact Toland and inform him about the spy. Perhaps this secret agent can be apprehended.” He paused again, frowning. “But there is something I would like to discuss with you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Before I proceed,” Plato stated, “I must qualify my complaint.” He adopted a paternal air. “Blade, I know the Founder had his reasons for organizing the Family the way it is. I know Carpenter believed it was necessary for the head of the Warriors to be permitted to override the Family Leader in a time of crisis. I comprehend the wisdom of the arrangement. And I know interrogating a prisoner is your province.” Plato sighed. “But I really must protest your treatment of Lieutenant Lysenko.”

  Blade went to speak, but Plato held up his hand.

  “Bear with me,” Plato said. “Lysenko isn’t the first prisoner you have treated so brutally. I doubt he will be the last. And, yes, I can recognize the validity of the psychology behind your methods. But I want to pose a moral issue for your consideration. Don’t answer me right away. Meditate on this.” He cleared his throat. “We, the Family, believe in the guidance of the Spirit in our lives. We believe in exalted concepts of love and brotherhood, don’t we?”

  “Yes,” Blade replied.

  “We are, after a fashion, symbols for those still languishing in a squalid cultural darkness, are we not?”

  “I never thought of it that way,” Blade admitted.

  “You should,” Plato said. “Talk to some of your friends in the Freedom Federation. You’ll be surprised at how favorably they view our accomplishments.”

  “What’s this have to do with my methods?” Blade asked.

  “Simply this. If we claim to be living on a higher moral and spiritual plane than those unfortunates still suffering from the delayed ravages of the nuclear war, don’t we have a certain responsibility to them and ourselves to conduct our behavior according to our highest spiritual dictates?”

  Blade studied his mentor. He’d always admired Plato’s wisdom, and reciprocated Plato’s abiding affection. But in this instance, he felt, the Family Leader was wrong. “So what you’re getting at,” he deduced, “is that I should treat our prisoners differently. Not be as hard on them. Is that it?”

  “Precisely,” Plato said, smiling. “You see my point?”

  “I see it,” Blade declared.

  “Excellent.”

  “But I don’t agree,” Blade commented.

  “Why not?”

  Blade raised his right hand and pointed at the west wall. “On the other side of that wall is a world filled with evil, a world where people are murdered over trifles, a world where survival of the fittest is the norm. Oh, there are a few exceptions. The Civilized Zone. The Flathead Indians. The Cavalry. Us. But by and large, a lot of folks out there take each day as it comes, never knowing if they’ll still be alive at the end of it or not. There’s no peace of mind, no security. Existence is hand to mouth.” He swept the compound with his hand. “Well, that’s never going to happen here! I won’t allow it! The only reason we’re able to live on a higher moral and spiritual plane, as you put it, is because those walls, and the Warriors, keep all the killers, all of the degenerates, all of the power-mongers, and every other type of social parasite conceivable outside the Home. Not everybody lives on the same plane we do. A lot of people are outright evil. Wicked. Living to harm others.” Blade leaned toward Plato. “The only methods those vermin understand are the same methods they employ. Violence. And more violence. And if that’s what it takes to preserve the Family, then those are the methods I’ll employ!”

  This time it was Plato’s turn to open his mouth to speak; instead, he mutely scrutinized his protege. Plato had taken Blade under his wing after the death of Blade’s father, had even let it be known he wanted Blade to succeed him as Family Leader after his demise. He knew Blade was an outstanding Warrior, perhaps the best the Family had ever seen. Oh, Blade wasn’t as
deadly as, say Hickok or Rikki or Yama. But Blade’s overall temperament, despite his tendency to brood periodically, qualified him to be the top Warrior. One day, Plato hoped, if his tutelage was successful, Blade would also qualify to hold the post of Family Leader.

  Blade gently placed his right hand on Plato’s left shoulder. “I’m sorry if my methods disturb you. But it simply can’t be helped.” He somberly gazed at the west wall. “You haven’t been out there, Plato. You haven’t seen what it’s like. The constant killing, the senseless slaughter. You must stay on your guard from the moment you leave the Home until the moment you step back inside. It’s sheer hell.”

  “True, I haven’t journeyed beyond the Home as extensively as you have,” Plato acknowledged. “But I’m not naive either. I’ve survived attacks by a variety of mutations, the clouds, and wild animals. I saw the carnage the Trolls wrought when they invaded the Home and abducted some of our dearest friends and loved ones. If you’ll recall, I readily assented to sending Alpha Triad to Fox to save the kidnapped women. I also lived through an all-out assault by the Civilized Zone Army while you were in Denver. I wasn’t born yesterday. I know the postwar era is rife with bloodshed, and violence rules. I only wish we didn’t need to subscribe to it.”

  “We have no choice,” Blade stated.

  Plato sighed wistfully. “I’m reluctant to admit it, but apparently you’re right. It’s so distressing, though, to see us pulled down to their level.”

  “When dealing with trash,” Blade philosophized, “you have to expect to get a little dirty.”

  Plato scrunched up his nose. “I wish you wouldn’t define it in quite those terms.”

  “Just thank the Spirit there’s a big difference between them and us,” Blade mentioned.

  “Which difference do you mean?” Plato inquired.

  “We may slip into the muck now and then,” Blade said. “But at least we can climb out again.” He paused. “Bastards like Lysenko, and the Trolls and the Doktor too, live in it. Wallow in it. Enjoy it.”

  Plato deliberated for a minute. “I never considered the matter in that light.”

  “Try it sometime,” Blade recommended. “You’ll sleep better at night.”

  Chapter Three

  Morning of the next day.

  Six men and a woman were gathered near the open drawbridge in the west wall of the Home. Lieutenant Lysenko stood meekly in the middle of the group. The gunfighter, Hickok, was to his right. The Indian, Geronimo, to his left. Three other Warriors ringed him. One of them, a tall blond man in buckskin pants and a green shirt, armed with a broadsword, was familiar. Lysenko had seen Blade conversing with the man the day before in the infirmary, after Blade had returned to continue his interrogation. The Warrior with the broadsword was named Spartacus.

  But the other two were new to Lysenko.

  One was a beautiful dusky woman with an Afro. She wore a green fatigue shirt and pants, black boots, and carried an M-16. For some mysterious reason, she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off Hickok.

  The other newcomer was a youth, obviously shy of his 20th birthday, possibly even younger. His hair and eyes were brown, his eyebrows bushy.

  Whether deliberately or not, he wore his long hair in the same style as Hickok. His clothing was all black, and patterned after a cut Lysenko was unfamiliar with, incorporating wide lapels and tight pants legs. A revolver was strapped to his right thigh.

  Blade was four feet away, arms at his side, glancing from one to the other. “You have your instructions. Any questions?”

  “Yeah,” Hickok said. He grinned at Lysenko. “If this cow chip makes a break for it, can I perforate his noggin?”

  “Do whatever is necessary,” Blade advised, “but keep him alive until after you retrieve the radio transmitter. I don’t care what happens to him afterwards.”

  Lysenko frowned. “You promised I would be set free if I helped you!” he protested.

  “And you will be,” Blade assured him.

  Lysenko nodded toward Hickok. “How do I know he will do as you say?

  How do I know he won’t decide to kill me on the way back?”

  “Hickok is a Warrior,” Blade stated. “He follows orders.”

  Hickok leaned toward the officer, smirking. “Which makes you the luckiest hombre alive.”

  “It’s only ten miles there, and ten back,” Blade addressed them. “I expect you here before dark.”

  “No problem,” Geronimo said. In addition to his tomahawk and the Arminius, he carried a Marlin 45-70.

  Blade glanced at Hickok. “All of you should take rifles or automatics,” he commented.

  Hickok nodded, then looked at the youth in black. “Shane, I want you to run to the armory and grab a rifle or whatever, and pick one up for Spartacus.”

  “I prefer a Heckler and Koch HK93,” Spartacus said to Shane.

  Shane started to run off.

  “Whoa!” Hickok called.

  Shane stopped and turned.

  “Swing by my cabin, will you, and ask Sherry for my Henry?” Hickok said, referring to his cherished Navy Arms Henry Carbine.

  Shane grinned, eager to please his acknowledged hero. “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” he promised, and sprinted to the east.

  The black woman laughed. “That boy’d lick your boots clean if you asked him!”

  “I’m not wearing boots,” Hickok rejoined.

  “Moccasins. Boots.” The black woman shrugged. “It wouldn’t make no nevermind to Shane. Ain’t you noticed how he’s put you up on a pedestal?”

  “I’ve noticed, Bertha,” Hickok said, sighing.

  “Shane isn’t the only one,” Geronimo interjected, winking at Bertha.

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?” Bertha demanded.

  “Oh, nothing,” Geronimo responded, grinning mischievously.

  Blade smiled. Bertha’s long-standing crush on Hickok was common gossip around the Home. She’d been interested in the gunman ever since they’d met in Thief River Falls. Even Hickok’s later marriage to Sherry hadn’t dampened Bertha’s ardor. Although she was regularly seen in the company of several Family men, Bertha had never taken a mate. Some said she was holding out, saving herself in the forlorn hope Hickok might one day become available. Hickok, Blade knew, was extremely uncomfortable over the situation, but didn’t seem to know what to do about it. Sherry appeared to tolerate Bertha’s affection for her husband, as long as the affection was kept at a distance.

  There was a sudden commotion to the north.

  Blade looked to his right, puzzled. There they were. At it again. Lynx, Ferret, and Gremlin. The trio had spent every waking moment since their return yesterday, arguing. He couldn’t imagine the cause of their dispute, but it was evident Lynx was constantly remonstrating w ith the other two over something.

  “I’ll be back in a bit, pard,” Hickok declared, and walked toward the bickering mutants. He could see Ferret and Gremlin shaking their heads, and Lynx gesturing angrily. A few of the words Lynx was saying became audible.

  “…morons… couldn’t find your butts… broad daylight…!”

  Ferret spotted the gunman when he was still ten yards off, and quickly whispered to the other two.

  The argument abruptly ceased.

  Hickok chuckled as he neared them.

  All three faced the gunfighter. All three were smiling serenely. All three smiles were patently phony.

  “What’s with you bozos?” Hickok greeted them.

  “You’ve been spattin’ like three stallions over a mare on the make!”

  Lynx stretched his fake grin even wider. “Spattin’? Us? No way. We’ve been havin’ an intelligent discussion.”

  Ferret snorted.

  Lynx ignored him. “What can we do for you, Hickok?”

  Hickok stared at each of them. “I plumb forgot yesterday. I owe you boys a debt.”

  “No, you don’t,” Lynx said.

  “You saved my missus from those pricks,” Hickok stated. “I wanted
to thank each of you, personal-like. And let you know I’m in your debt. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just say the word.”

  “There’s no need,” Lynx declared.

  “Yes, there is,” Hickok disagreed.

  “You’re our friend,” Lynx elaborated. “You’ve always treated us with respect. We just returned the favor.”

  Hickok put his right hand on Lynx’s shoulder. “I’m serious about this. I’ll never be able to thank you enough. Anything I can do for you, I will.”

  “Thanks,” Lynx said, “but you don’t…” He stopped, blinking rapidly.

  “What’s wrong?” Hickok asked.

  “Nothin’,” Lynx replied, beginning to smile again.

  “I’ll be seein’ you,” Hickok said, and began to turn away.

  “Just a minute!” Lynx said, a look of triumph on his face.

  Hickok paused. “What is it?”

  “Can you clarify somethin’ for me?” Lynx inquired.

  “If I can.” Hickok answered. “Shoot.”

  Lynx beamed at Ferret and Gremlin, then faced the gunman. “I need some info about the Warriors.”

  “What about them?” Hickok replied.

  “To become a candidate for consideration by the Elders,” Lynx said, “doesn’t a person have to be nominated by a Warrior?”

  “Uh-oh,” Ferret interjected.

  Hickok glanced at Ferret, perplexed, then answered Lynx. “We call it being sponsored. A candidate for Warrior status must be sponsored by an active Warrior before the Elders will vote on admittin’ them to the Warrior ranks. Why?”

  “Oh, just curious,” Lynx lied. “Tell me somethin’. How many candidates can a single Warrior sponsor?”

  “I don’t follow you,” Hickok said.

  “For instance,” Lynx detailed, “let’s pretend two people want to become Warriors. Could a single Warrior, like yourself for example, sponsor both of them?”