Liberty Run

by David Robbins

  “Game?” said one of the younger children, a girl of five or six. “Can we play a game?”

  “Shut up, Milly!” the oldest boy ordered.

  “Don’t talk to Milly like that, Cole!” interjected the eldest girl.

  “Butt out, Libby,” Cole rejoined.

  All of them began arguing at once, their commingled voices rising, filling the cabin with their clamorous dispute.

  Bertha was too woozy to comprehend their squabbling. She rested her head on the table and closed her eyes. What was going on here? she asked herself. She’d been captured by a bunch of kids!

  Someone prodded her on the left shoulder.

  Bertha twisted to her left.

  A young boy, not much over ten years of age, with long blond hair and big blue eyes, smiled at her. “Are you a Hunter?” he inquired in a high-pitched voice.

  “I’m a Warrior,” Bertha answered.

  “What’s a Warrior?” he wanted to know.

  Bertha tried to answer, but her mouth refused to open. She grimaced as a throbbing twinge pierced her skull.

  “What’s a Warrior?” the boy repeated.

  Bertha’s eyelids fluttered, and she sank back, unconscious.

  Chapter Ten

  “What is it?” Sundance asked.

  “Let’s find out,” Blade said.

  Bright stars dominated the heavens. A cool breeze was wafting from the northwest. Before them, perhaps a hundred yards distant, was a huge archlike structure.

  “I don’t see any lights,” Sundance whispered.

  “Me neither,” Blade commented. He moved toward the arch in a stooped-over posture, his Commando in his hands. The Commando Arms Carbine was one of his favorite guns. It came with an automatic or semiautomatic captibility, and only weighed about eight pounds. The Commando was about three feet in length, and used a 90-shot magazine.

  Blade had insured the magazine was fully loaded with 45-caliber ammunition before they had departed the SEAL. His last Commando had been lost in Chicago. Fortunately, there’d been another one in the extensive Family armory.

  Somewhere off to the west an owl hooted.

  Blade forced his mind to concentrate on the matter at hand. He was extremely worried about Bertha, and he couldn’t allow his concern to affect his effectiveness.

  They had waited at the SEAL until well after dark, with Sundance pacing back and forth the whole while, and Bertha had never appeared.

  Wherever she was, she was now on her own.

  They reached a row of trees bordering the structure and stopped.

  Without the moon, the night was murky, and visibility was restricted.

  They could see for about ten yards; beyond that, only shadows.

  Blade inched nearer to the arch. He discovered the ruins of a road and squatted, taking his bearings. They were traveling in a southerly direction, which meant the SEAL was parked in the forest about a mile to the north of the arch. The arch, whatever it might be, would serve as a landmark to guide them back to the SEAL. He ylanced both ways, then sprinted to the base of the structure.

  Sundance joined him.

  The arch was rough to the touch, as if it had been constructed of stone.

  It rose high into the night, blocking out a section of the sky.

  “What is it?” Sundance queried, running his left hand over the sandy texture.

  “Maybe a monument of some kind,” Blade deduced. “We studied about Valley Forge in school, remember?”

  Sundance pondered for a moment. “Yeah. Didn’t it have something to do with the Revolutionary War in America and George Washington, their first President?”

  “This is the place,” Blade affirmed. “This arch must he a memorial. Why else would they have put it in the middle of a field? I’m amazed it’s still here after all this time.”

  Sundance motioned toward the field. “Didn’t Bertha say this area was a park?”

  “It was once,” Blade said, “but I seriously doubt the Russians would have bothered to maintain a shrine to American liberty.”

  “Which explains why the place is overgrown with weeds,” Sundance mentioned, “and why the road is a wreck.”

  “Let’s go,” Blade stated, leading off to the south.

  They traversed another field and entered another stretch of woods.

  “There’s a light,” Sundance said in a hushed tone, pointing.

  Blade glanced to their left. A solitary light glowed approximately 400 yards to the southeast. “We’ll take a look,” he told Sundance.

  The two Warriors bore to the southeast. The forest ended, and the Warriors discovered a quiet residential neighborhood. They crouched near a street curb and scanned the houses on both sides.

  Blade felt his left Bowie hilt gouge his side. He had concealed the big knives under his uniform shirt, aligning the sheaths under his belt, with one Bowie on each hip. He shifted to alleviate the discomfort.

  “Where is everyone?” Sundance murmured.

  Blade was wondering the same thing. Except for the second residence on the left, all of the homes were dark, evidently uninhabited. And there was not a solitary soul in sight. He rose and ran across the street toward the first home on the left. The yard was a tangled jumble of weeds and brush, obviously neglected for years. Blade raced up the front porch, then stopped.

  The home was a shambles, its door busted and hanging from the top hinge, its windows shattered. The pale yellow paint on the exterior was peeled and flaked.

  Blade turned toward the next house. Sundance at his side, he jogged over to the north wall of the structure. The interior of the home was black, except for a flickering ball of light at ground level near the front door. The walls of this house, like the first, badly needed a paint job. Bits and pieces of broken glass from the windows lined the cement foundation.

  The front door was located on the west side of the residence. Blade eased around the corner, bent down, and moved closer to the flickering light.

  The glow was emanating from a busted basement window.

  Blade dropped to his hands and knees, then inched to the edge of the window. He peeked past the metal lip.

  The basement had a tenant. An elderly man with gray hair and a long gray beard was seated on a wooden stool, hungrily gnawing on a roasted rabbit leg. A small fire was burning in the middle of the concrete floor.

  Dust and dirt covered the antique workbench, table, and chair positioned along the south wall, and the washer and dryer along the east wall.

  Cobwebs dotted the beams in the ceiling. A flight of stairs on the north side of the basement provided access to the first floor.

  Blade examined the window, comparing its frame dimensions to the width of his shoulders. He decided he could do it.

  Sundance was waiting behind him.

  Blade twisted, motioned with his right arm toward the front door, then pointed at the basement window.

  Sundance nodded his understanding. He crept past Blade and reached the door. The FN 50-63 in his left hand, he tried the doorknob with his right.

  The door swung open with a slight creek.

  Sundance grinned and disappeared inside.

  Blade peered into the basement. The elderly man was still chewing on the rabbit leg, striving to strip every last vestige of meat from the bone. He wore a blue shirt and brown pants, both garments exhibiting more holes than fabric. His brown leather shoes qualified as relics; on both of them, his toes protruded from the ends.

  Blade lowered himself onto his abdomen, then positioned his body so he was perpendicular to the window. He slowly counted to ten, and on the count of ten galvanized into action. Using his elbows, he slid his arms, head, and shoulders through the window. He aimed the Commando at the man eating the rabbit.

  The man in the basement was almost as spry as the animal he was consuming. He was on his feet and darting for the stairs in an instant, but he halted after only five steps and raised his arms in the air, dropping the rabbit leg.

  Sundance was s
tanding on the stairs, the FN pointed at the elderly man’s head.

  Blade eased through the window, letting his body drop the seven feet to the floor. He executed an acrobatic maneuver in midair, jerking his feet down and swinging his torso upward, and alighted upright with the Commando trained on the man with the rabbit.

  The elderly gentlemen glared from Sundance to Blade. “All right!” he snapped, displaying a gap where four of his upper front teeth had once been. “You caught me, you Commie bastards! Go on! Get it over with!”

  Blade glanced at Sundance, who grinned.

  “Get it over with!” the man demanded. “You finally caught old Nick! But it took you slime long enough, didn’t it?” He cackled.

  Blade walked toward the man called Nick. “What are you babbling about?” he asked.

  Nick cocked his head and scrutinized the giant. “Damn! They’re growin’ you sons of bitches big nowadays, ain’t they?”

  “I think you’re laboring under a misapprehension,” Blade said.

  Nick did a double take. “Damn! You pricks are speakin’ better English all the time!”

  “You have us confused with someone else,” Blade stated.

  “Oh? Who?” Nick replied.

  “The Russians,” Blade explained.

  Nick laughed and shook his head, his beard swaying. “You morons! Do you really think old Nick is as gullible as that? I won’t fall for your crock of shit!”

  “We’re not Russians,” Blade said.

  “You’re not?” Nick responded in mock astonishment. “Then those must be ballet costumes you’re wearin’!” He snickered.

  Blade lowered the Commando barrel. “I’m serious. We’re not Russians. We confiscated these uniforms.”

  “Yeah. Right. What are you tryin’ to pull? Are you with the KGB?” Nick queried.

  “What must I do to convince you we’re not Russian troopers?” Blade inquired.

  Nick tittered. “Sprout wings and a halo.”

  Blade indicated the smoldering fire with a wave of his left hand. “Why don’t you have a seat? There are a few questions I’d like to ask you.”

  “I’ll bet there are!” Nick declared, smirking. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playin’, but I’ll go along with it. I don’t have any choice, do I?”

  Blade stepped aside as Nick walked to the stool and sat down.

  Sundance came down the stairs and moved to the right. He leaned against the wall, his automatic rifle cradled in his arms.

  “I ain’t never seen guns like yours,” Nick mentioned, admiring the Commando in Blade’s right hand.

  “You see? Don’t these guns prove we’re not Russians?” Blade asked.

  “They don’t prove diddly,” Nick retorted.

  Blade sighed. “What are you doing down here all by yourself?”

  “Jackin’ off,” Nick answered, and chuckled.

  “Can’t you give me a straight answer?” Blade queried.

  “Why the hell should I?” Nick rejoined. “I hate all you Commie sons of bitches!”

  “But I told you we’re not Russians,” Blade reiterated.

  “Oh, you may not be from Russia,” Nick said, “but you’re still a Commie bastard! I know you’re forcin’ some of our women to have kids for you! I know you’re raisin’ the kids like they would have been raised in your rotten Motherland! I know!” His voice vibrated with the intensity of his emotion.

  Blade frowned. This was getting them nowhere. He’d hoped to glean important information from their conversation, information which might aid Sundance and him in the attainment of their goal.

  Sundance noted the expression on Blade’s face. “Let’s get out of here,” he suggested. “This crazy old coot won’t help us fight the Russians.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Blade admitted reluctantly. He smiled at Nick.

  “Be seeing you. Take care of yourself.”

  Blade and Sundance started toward the stairs.

  Nick watched them cross the basement, his blue eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You’re just gonna leave?”

  “Yep,” Blade confirmed.

  “You ain’t gonna kill me?”

  “Nope,” Blade answered.

  “This is some kind of trick!” Nick exclaimed.

  “Nope.” Blade reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “I don’t get any of this,” Nick muttered. “Why’d you bust in here, if you don’t intend to kill me?”

  Blade reached the third step. “I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  “What questions?” Nick asked.

  Blade paused. “You’ll help us?”

  “I still don’t believe any of this,” Nick said. “I think you’re jerkin’ me around. Then again, there’s no way a pair of Hunters would walk off and let me live.”

  “Hunters?” Blade repeated.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know what Hunters are!” Nick stated.

  “Of course we do,” Sundance said. “Hunters kill game. I’ve hunted plenty of times. Deer, bear, ducks, you name it.”

  Nick squinted at Sundance. “Either you’re the biggest idiot this world’s ever seen, or you’re the biggest liar.”

  Sundance turned. “I wouldn’t make a habit out of calling me a liar.”

  “Touchy, ain’t we?” Nick retorted.

  “Will you help us?” Blade interjected.

  Nick nodded. “You got me curious now. I’ll answer your questions.”

  Blade and Sundance returned to the fire.

  “So what are you doing down here all by yourself?” Blade asked again.

  “Eatin’ a rabbit I conked on the head with a rock,” Nick said. “The homes around here were abandoned ages ago. I figured I could hide out here for a spell. No one ever comes around here, except the Hunters, of course. Valley Forge is off-limits.”

  “What are these hunters you keep talking about?” Blade inquired.

  “Hunters are murderin’ slime! The Commies train some of their soldiers in trackin’ and night-stalkin’, and everybody calls ’em Hunters.

  They hunt us down. Get a bounty for every Freeb they kill. Double the bounty if its a Packrat,” Nick detailed.

  Blade’s brow furrowed in perplexity. “I don’t understand. What’s a Freeb? And a Packrat?”

  Nick seemed surprised by the question. “I’m a Freeb, dummy! And the Packrats are the kids, the ones hidin’ out in Valley Forge.”

  “You’re a Freeb?” Blade said. “I still don’t understand.”

  Nick stared up at the giant, amused. “They sure grow ’em stupid where you come from!”

  “I told you we’re not Russians,” Blade stated sharply. “And we’re not from around here. We don’t have the slightest idea what a Freeb is. Or a Packrat.”

  Nick pursed his lips. “You know, I’m beginnin’ to believe you turkeys. Well, Freeb is short for freeborn. Anyone who ain’t been printed and mugged by the Commies is called a Freeb ’cause the Commies ain’t got no record of ’em. You understand that?”

  “So far,” Blade said. “But why do the Russians mug people? To rob them?”

  Nick gazed at the washer and dryer. “Dummies! I’m dealin’ with dummies here!”

  “Who are you talking to?” Sundance asked.

  Nick pointed at the appliances. “Them.”

  Sundance glanced at Blade. “This geezer is nuts.”

  “I’m nuts?” Nick said. “Tell me somethin’, boy. Do you know which end of a horse the shit comes out of?”

  “Why are we dummies?” Blade queried.

  “Because you don’t know what it means when I say the Commies mug folks. They take mug shots for their files. Get it? Photographs. Pictures. You do know what a photograph is?” Nick said.

  “I’ve seen some,” Blade answered. Actually, he’d seen thousands. Kurt Carpenter had stocked the Family library with hundreds of volumes depicting a pictorial history of humankind. Photographic books on every subject were represented, from sailing to spaceships. “Bu
t how is it you haven’t been… printed and mugged… by the Soviets? Don’t they mug everyone?”

  “They try to,” Nick stated. “But they don’t catch everybody. Their Admin Centers are concentrated in the cities and towns, and they have trouble keepin’ tabs on all the rural folks. I was born nearly seventy years ago, on a farm in western Pennsylvania. My mom and pop never took me in to be mugged.”

  “How long have you been hiding out like this?” Blade inquired.

  Nick sighed. “Too damn long. I’m gettin’ tired of all the runnin’ and hidin’. I’ve been in these parts for about a year. There are a lot of abandoned homes around Valley Forge, and I keep movin’ from one to the next. Like I said, no one ever comes here. It’s illegal to be caught in Valley Forge. Oh, I bump into the Packrats now and again. But they keep their distance, and I keep mine. Besides, I ain’t got nothin’ they’d want.”

  “What are the Packrats?” Blade asked.

  “The kids, dummy.”

  Blade looked at the window. “There are kids out there?”

  “Bunches of ’em,” Nick answered. “They live in gangs, and spend their time foragin’ for food and fightin’ each other. When they’re not hidin’ from the Hunters, that is.”

  “Where do these kids come from?” Blade queried.

  “Everywhere,” Nick replied. “But mostly from the big cities, like Philly.

  They’re orphans, usually. Their parents get killed by the Commies, and they have nowhere else to go. So they hoof it. If they don’t hit the road, the Commies will use ’em in their slave-labor camps. A lot of the runaways wind up here, or places like Valley Forge. They hear about it through the grapevine.”

  “Kids,” Blade said, feeling an overwhelming revulsion for the Russians, and thinking about his little son Gabe.

  “Don’t feel sorry for ’em,” Nick declared. “They’re mean, the Packrats.

  They’d slit your throat for the clothes off your back. They trap folks from time to time, then torture ’em before they kill ’em.”

  “What happens to these kids when they grow up?” Blade asked.

  “Few of ’em live that long,” Nick said. “Those that do, just wander off to make a go of it someplace else.”

  Blade reached up and scratched his chin. “I know a lot of towns were evacuated during the war for one reason or another. Some were destroyed. So the map I have isn’t completely reliable. And I need to know where the nearest inhabited town is located. What would it be?”