“That was cruel,” Nightingale said. “You scared the poor man half to death.”
“I agree,” Plato concurred. He glanced at Blade. “Was such a barbaric act necessary?”
“We needed to be sure,” the head Warrior responded. “I can’t take any chances where your life is concerned.” He slowly sheathed the Bowie and looked at Nightingale. “Stitch him up while he’s unconscious. I want to be informed the minute he wakes up.”
“Will do,” she promised.
Plato turned to Yama. “Did he give you any clue as to his reason for seeking us out?”
“He wanted to talk to someone in authority,” Yama related, and his countenance clouded. “He mentioned the Technics.”
“He did, did he?” Blade remarked thoughtfully. “I’ll post a guard to stay here until he revives.”
“I’d like to volunteer,” Yama offered.
“Isn’t this your day off?”
“I don’t mind.”
Blade absently stroked his chin. “I thought you were busy with target practice.”
“The firing range can wait. I want to keep an eye on our visitor,” Yama said.
“Suit yourself. Bring him outside after Nightingale is finished,” Blade ordered. He turned and walked to the doorway.
Plato trailing behind him. They sauntered toward the moat.
“Yama has developed an inordinate interest in Andrew Wolski,” Plato remarked when they were ten yards from C Block. “He must suspect that the Technics are somehow involved with Mister Wolski.”
“Or Yama hopes they are,” Blade amended. “If I read Wolski correctly, he’s here to ask our help. Yama must believe the same thing, and I gather he’s hoping the Technics are the culprits. He wants a chance to get his revenge.”
“I’ve always considered Yama to be one of the finest Warriors. He exhibits superb self-control. I should think he had gotten over her by now,” Plato said.
“How do you get over the death of a loved one?”
The Family Leader clasped his bony hands behind his back and sighed.
“I see your point. What will you do?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” Blade said. He gazed at the azure sky, then at the rampart on the west wall where Ares stood with a Colt AR-15 slung over his left shoulder. “We have something else to discuss.”
“The replacement for Marcus?”
“Exactly. I’ve selected a candidate to formally sponsor before the Elders.”
Plato glanced at his companion fondly, remembering the day, years ago, when Blade’s father had been slain by a mutate and Plato had decided to take the youth under his wing. He viewed the giant as the son he’d never had, and he had appointed Blade as the chief Warrior after assuming the post of Leader. “I was wondering when you were going to get around to nominating someone. Several of the other Elders have commented on the delay.”
“I’ve delayed choosing a candidate because I wanted to carefully evaluate those who are qualified for the post. After what happened to Marcus, I want to make the right choice.”
“Marcus died because he was inexperienced. No matter who you pick now, they’ll be equally as inexperienced,” Plato said.
“True. But I’m hoping to select a candidate who will be more decisive than Marcus, someone who can think fast under stress,” Blade stated, and paused. “I know several of the Warriors have sponsored their own favorite candidates.”
“Yes, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi is sponsoring Norris. Spartacus has nominated Jason. And Sundance is sponsoring Mather.”
“You’re kidding.”
Plato chuckled. “I wish I was. None of the Elders view Mather as a serious candidate. He’s too unstable. But what about you? The person you sponsor will be the heavy favorite. Your recommendation carries a lot of weight with the Elders.”
“I know. Which is another reason I wanted the ideal nominee.”
“So how long do you intend to keep me in suspense?”
Blade looked at his mentor and grinned. “I plan to sponsor Achilles.”
The Family Leader suddenly halted, then checked to ensure none of the other Family members were within hearing range. “Now you’re the one who is kidding, I trust.”
“Nope,” Blade replied, resting his hands on his hips.
“Achilles?” Plato repeated the name, speaking with the same inflection he might employ to discuss a plague.
“What’s wrong with him? His Tegner instructor reports that Achilles has mastered karate,” Blade said, referring to the Elder responsible for teaching the martial arts. Among the countless books in the Family library were two dozen on hand-to-hand combat written by a man named Bruce Tegner. Each of the books contained precise, detailed instructions and diagrams, and included photographs of each stance, position, and movement. There were Tegner books on karate, judo, jujitsu, aikido, kung fu, savate, jukado, and many other styles of martial combat. The Tegner books were used as the basic source of tutelage in unarmed fighting, and the training classes, which were taught by an Elder who was a former Warrior, had become known as Tegner sessions, or simply Tegner.
Plato nodded. “I’ve heard that Achilles is almost as skilled as Rikki and Yama.”
“And Achilles has qualified as a marksman,” Blade noted. “He’s a whiz with an Uzi.”
“True,” Plato conceded.
“Achilles is quick and he’s deadly. I believe he’ll make an outstanding Warrior.”
“But what about his compatibility with the other Warriors?” Plato inquired. “Achilles has a certain knack for rubbing people the wrong way, as you well know. He’s opinionated, pompous, and egotistical.”
Blade shrugged. “Everyone has character flaws.”
“But Warriors should have as few as possible,” Plato stated. “Why do you think the Founder implemented such a rigorous screening process for Warrior candidates? The Elders have long prided themselves on choosing only superior nominees. Oh, a few mistakes have been made in the last century. Napoleon was a case in point. Overall, though, our record is exemplary.” He shook his head. “I’m amazed that you would contemplate sponsoring Achilles.”
“I’m not contemplating sponsoring him,” Blade said. “I’ve already made up my mind to submit his name.”
Plato’s forehead furrowed and he scrutinized the giant’s face, reading determination in the set of Blade’s features. “If you’ve already decided, then nothing I can say will dissuade you. But be advised. The Elders might reject Achilles. His nomination will spark a bitter debate.”
“I just hope the Elders will judge Achilles objectively and not allow their personal feelings to interfere with their better judgment.”
“We’ll do our best,” Plato said dryly.
“Good. Now that that’s settled, there’s another subject I need to bring up,” Blade mentioned.
“Should I brace myself?”
Blade smiled. “I want to discuss perimeter security.”
“What is there to discuss? We always have three Warriors patrolling the ramparts, and we keep the land cleared of all boulders, brush, and trees for one hundred and fifty yards in every direction from the four walls. Our perimeter security is adequate.”
“Is it? The Trolls managed to invade the Home once, if you’ll recall. A Technic demolition squad reached the top of the west wall before they were stopped. And the pair of hybrid assassins sent by the Doktor sneaked in and killed a Tiller,” Blade said.
“The Trolls were successful because we had grown complacent after so many years without an attack. Those hybrids came through the aqueduct at the northwest corner of the Home. Since then, we’ve installed heavy screens over the aqueduct to prevent anyone or anything from swimming in,” Plato responded, and gazed at the water flowing along the base of the west wall. “The Founder diverted the stream into the Home and channeled it all along the inside of the walls as a secondary line of defense. He didn’t foresee that enemies might use the aqueducts to infiltrate the Home.”
; Blade watched a group of children who were playing tag in the commons area between the Blocks. “The important point isn’t how our security was breached, but the fact that a breach occurred. I propose to upgrade our defenses with a Canine Team.”
“A what?”
“I’ve seen them in California. A handler and a dog, usually a German shepherd or a Doberman pinscher, work in tandem. The dogs go through extensive training and they’re outstanding guards.”
Plato listened attentively. The Free State of California was an ally of the Family’s. They were but two of seven organized factions comprising the Freedom Federation, an alliance of scattered pockets of civilization in a world driven insane by the nuclear Armageddon. In addition to California, the Family had signed a mutual self-defense treaty with the Flathead Indians, who now controlled the state of Montana; with the Cavalry, a rugged population of superb horsemen and frontiersmen who governed the Dakota Territory; with the Moles, a reclusive group who dwelt in an underground city in north-central Minnesota; with the Clan, refugees from the ravaged Twin Cities who had relocated in Halma, near the Home; and with the Civilized Zone. Of all the factions, only the Civilized Zone could rightfully lay claim to being the direct administrative successor of the United States of America. During the war the U.S.
government had evacuated thousands and thousands of its citizens into the area formerly embracing the states of Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Oklahoma and portions of Arizona and the northern half of Texas. After the government had collapsed, a dictatorship had arisen and the dictator had renamed the Midwest region and selected Denver, Colorado, to be the new capital.
“Governor Melnick has offered to send us a half-dozen dogs,” Blade was saying, “as a token of appreciation for the friend-ship between California and the Family. I’m thinking of accepting. The Dobermans and German shepherds would be a definite asset.”
“But who would handle the canines?” Plato asked. “The Warriors already have ample responsibilities.”
“I had this brainstorm,” Blade said. “What if we took six inexperienced candidates, six younger members of the Family who want to become Warriors, and paired them with dogs. We could train them to work with the Dobermans and shepherds and assign them to patrolling the perimeter. This way, we wouldn’t jeopardize our security by depleting our regular Warrior ranks, and we would be giving potential Warriors the opportunity to gain needed experience.”
Plato nodded slowly, once again impressed by the clarity of logic his apprentice demonstrated. “Your idea has merit. Would the novice Warriors be accorded full Warrior status?”
“No. We’ll think up an appropriate title.”
“And what about Achilles? Will he be assigned to the Canine Team?”
Plato questioned.
Blade shook his head. “I want him to be accepted as a full-fledged Warrior.”
“I don’t see why you are so insistent.”
“Trust me,” Blade said.
Plato looked the giant in the eyes. “You know I do.” He coughed lightly.
“So when will you submit your proposal to the Elders?”
“At the next meeting. If the Elders agree, I’ll relay the word to Governor Melnick on my next trip to Los Angeles.”
“Which will be when?”
Blade turned and stared at C Block. “I don’t know. I intended to head back in a few days, but my trip may be delayed by our friend in there.”
“What if he journeyed so far to request our assistance? Will you relay his plea to the Federation Council? This might turn out to be a job for the Force, not the Warriors.”
“Maybe,” Blade conceded. The Federation leaders had formed an elite tactical unit composed of a volunteer from each Federation faction and dubbed this unit the Freedom Force. Whenever the leaders received word of a possible threat to the safety of the Federation, the Force was dispatched to investigate and deal with the problem, if necessary. Due to his widely acknowledged expertise in such matters, Blade had been picked to be the head of the Force. He now spent, on average, a week out of each month in Los Angeles, where the Force facility was located, and the remaining three weeks at the Home with his wife and son. If an emergency arose during those weeks, the governor of California would immediately dispatch a Hurricane, a jet possessing vertical-takeoff-and-landing capability, to pick him up. The VTOLs normally flew a regular shuttle service between the Federation factions. “We won’t know until we talk to him.”
“I hope, for your sake, that the reason for his being here won’t entail another run into the Outlands.”
Blade made a snorting noise. “Ever heard of a guy named Murphy?”
Chapter Three
“How are you feeling?” Plato inquired.
“Much better, thank you,” Andrew Wolski replied. He lay on the cot with three plump white pillows propped under his shoulders. “That Healer did a great job of bandaging me up. And after the venison soup I ate, I feel terrific.”
“Then you’re ready to talk?”
“I was ready when I got here, but I wasn’t in the best of shape,” Andrew said. To his left stood the Family Leader. On his right, side by side, were the giant and the man in blue.
“You mentioned that you came looking for us,” Blade stated. “Why?”
Andrew frowned and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them and gazed at the head Warrior, they were filled with a profound inner sadness. “It’s my wife and daughter. I need your help or they’ll die.”
Blade and Plato exchanged glances.
“Start at the beginning,” the giant directed. “Tell us everything.”
“Okay. You’ll need some background first,” Andrew said, and launched into his tale. “I’ve been a farmer all of my life. I was raised on a farm west of Green Bay, and I took over the farm after my parents were killed in a freak accident. They were coming back from a neighbor’s in a buggy and something must have spooked their team. When they didn’t return on time, a search got underway.” He paused. “We found the buggy smashed to bits against a tree. Their bodies were in the wreckage.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Plato tactfully asked, hoping to take Wolski’s mind off the tragic mishap.
“One of each,” Andrew responded. “My sister married a guy who lives about twenty miles from our place. He’s a farmer too. My younger brother tired of the farming life and took off. I don’t know if he ever found what he was looking for because I never heard from him again.”
“How long ago did he leave?” Plato queried.
“Sixteen years ago. I expect he’s dead by now.”
“How does all of this relate to your wife and daughter?” Blade interjected.
Andrew looked up. “I’m getting to that. Fourteen years ago I met the most beautiful woman who ever lived, Sandra. And I don’t mean the kind of beauty that’s only skin deep either. She’s beautiful inside, where it really counts.”
“Any man who finds the ideal love of his life is indeed fortunate,” Plato commented.
“Sandra and I were inseparable. I live just to make her happy,” Andrew said. “Our daughter, Nadine, was born nine months after our wedding.
She’s our only child. Not that we haven’t tried to have more.”
“And Sandra and Nadine are in danger?” Blade prompted.
Andrew nodded. “The Mad Scientist has them.”
The giant’s eyebrows arched. “The who?”
“The Mad Scientist is the name we’ve given to the bastard who showed up in Green Bay about six months ago,” Andrew disclosed. “You see, until the madman arrived, we didn’t have any major problems. Oh, we had our share of scavengers and mutations and whatnot. But not the sheer terror we have now. We grew our crops and traded for whatever we needed with the Indians and the townspeople.”
“Just a second,” Plato interrupted. “There are a few facts that require clarification. Who controls Green Bay?”
“The Mad Scientist does now, but before he
came no one did. There were people living there, but they weren’t very organized. They lived hand to mouth by scrounging items they found in all the abandoned buildings.
Green Bay wasn’t hit during the war, but most of the folks left. My grandfather told me they were forced to leave by the government and taken somewhere else. The city is rundown. Most of the stores and houses are falling apart. Rats and cockroaches are everywhere,” Andrew said distastefully. “I don’t see how anyone could live there.”
“Where do the Indians live?” Plato probed.
“I wish I had a map,” Andrew stated.
“We can get one,” Blade offered.
“I won’t need it. Just follow me on this. The city of Green Bay is located at the south end of Green Bay. Due west of the city—bordering it, in fact—is the Oneida Indian Reservation, which is only about ten miles wide. Just west of the Reservation, near a deserted town called Seymour, is where I have my farm.”
“I take it the Oneida Indians stayed on the reservations after the war?”
Plato inquired.
“Most did. They don’t like to refer to it as a reservation, though. To them, it’s just their land. They’re very peaceful and have never caused any trouble for the farmers and ranchers.”
“Go on with your story,” Plato said.
“Okay. About six months ago a rumor started circulating that a strange man had shown up in Green Bay with an escort of forty soldiers and taken over the old University of Wisconsin campus.”
“Soldiers?” Blade repeated.
“Yeah.” Andrew nodded. “Technics.”
For the first time since the conversation commenced, Yama stirred. He straightened and stepped closer to the cot. “How do you know these soldiers are Technics?”
“The farmers in my area deal with the Technics on a regular basis.
Those sons of bitches are always in the market for food to feed the people they have crammed in Technic City. We know Technic soldiers when we see them,” Andrew assured him. “Anyway, the guy who took over the college had a barbed-wire fence erected and signs posted to keep everyone out. He warned the people living in the city to stay away under penalty of death.”
Green Bay Run Page 3