Spartan Run

by David Robbins

  And there was another reason, out of the 18 Family members selected to be Warriors, to defend the Home and protect the Family, Blade was the leader. He had a responsibility to those under him. Plus there was the fact Rikki would have gone by himself if no one else went along, and even the highly seasoned Warriors found surviving in the Outlands a strenuous task. What with scavengers, the crazies, mutations, and assorted cutthroats roaming all over the countryside, a sole Warrior could easily be slain.

  Blade didn’t want to lose Rikki.

  He recalled the recent death of another Warrior, a novice named Marcus, who had perished in the Outlands while on a rescue mission, and he inwardly vowed that none of them would die on this run.

  “Where exactly are we?” Teucer inquired.

  “Rikki has the map,” Blade noted, skirting yet another yawning pit in the center of the road. Although the highways were in deplorable condition, having suffered over a century of neglect and abuse by the elements, they were easier than going overland, even for the SEAL.

  The Solar-Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle had been the brainchild of the Family’s Founder, Kurt Carpenter. He’d wisely foreseen that conventional cars and trucks would become largely obsolete after World War Three; fuel would be scarce and spare parts virtually impossible to obtain. So he’d spent millions to have the SEAL developed by automotive experts who believed they were creating the “recreational vehicle of the future.” Carpenter had never revealed his ulterior motive.

  Eventually the experts had produced a remarkable prototype. Green in hue and van-like in configuration, the SEAL incorporated a number of unique features. The body was composed of a special heat-resistant, shatterproof plastic that had been tinted so no one could see inside. The floor was an impervious metal alloy. A powerful air-cooled, self-lubricating engine enabled the transport to attain speeds in excess of one hundred miles per hour. The tires were immense.

  Especially unique was the power source: the sun. A pair of solar panels attached to the roof of the SEAL collected the sunlight, and the energy was then converted and stored in a bank of six revolutionary batteries housed in a leadlined case under the vehicle. So long as the solar panels weren’t damaged or the battery casings weren’t cracked, the SEAL would have a constant source of energy.

  Kurt Carpenter had taken the innovations a step further. After the prototype was completed, he’d brought the SEAL to other specialists, to mercenaries versed in the art of war, and instructed them to transform the vehicle into an armed dreadnought. This they’d readily, done.

  Four toggle switches on the dashboard activated lite armaments. There were two 50-caliber machine guns hidden in recessed compartments mounted on the roof above the driver’s seat with others in reserve. Called Stingers, the missiles were heat-seeking and had a range of ten miles. The mercenaries had also outfitted the SEAL with a flamethrower positioned at the front, behind the fender. When the proper toggle was thrown, a portion of the fender lowered and the flamethrower’s nozzle extended six inches and engaged. Finally, secreted in the center of the front grill was a rocket launcher.

  Without the SEAL, Blade reflected, the Family would never have been able to send the Warriors out from time to time to make contact with other outposts of civilization.

  Like they were doing now.

  “We’re in northeastern Iowa,” Rikki stated, the map spread open on his lap. “The road we’re on is State Highway 76.” He gazed out his open window at the rugged terrain. “This region was the least inhabited part of the state. They called it the Switzerland of America because of all the hills and cliffs. East of us is the Mississippi River, twenty or thirty miles away at the most. West of this region is prime farming land. Three glaciers, leveled that area ages ago and left fertile topsoil in their wake.”

  “Been doing some studying, I take it?” Teucer remarked.

  Rikki nodded. “Once the Cavalry told us about the man they found and relayed his tale, I decided to do some research.”

  Blade listened attentively. He’d also conducted background research after being contacted by the leader of the Cavalry, Kilrane. Occupying the Dakota Territory, which embraced the former states of North and South Dakota, the Cavalry was one of six factions allied with the Family in the Freedom Federation. They lived much as did their frontier ancestors, and they were renowned for their superlative horsemanship.

  “Are there any towns nearby?” Teucer asked.

  “A few. Not far ahead we should find a secondary road that leads to the small town of Dorchester. If we go straight, in six or seven miles we should come to the Upper Iowa River.”

  “But there’s no mention on the map of a town named Sparta?” Teucer asked.

  “No,” Rikki answered, and sighed.

  “Maybe your wife is right,” Teucer said. “This is a wild goose chase.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  Rikki twisted in his seat to stare at the bowman. “Be my guest.”

  “Why is this so important to you? What does it matter to you if a new Sparta has arisen?”

  Blade waited expectantly for the martial artist’s answer. When the message from Kilrane had arrived at the Home, he’d been surprised at Rikki’s reaction. The normally cool-headed Warrior had been all set to take off immediately to ascertain the truth. Blade suspected Rikki’s enthusiasm had something to do with the time they’d been in Memphis.

  Rikki had mentioned meeting a man who claimed to be from Sparta, a new city-state that had arisen since the war, but he’d never disclosed the details of that meeting.

  “I made a promise to a dying man once,” Rikki said. “And I intend to keep that promise.”

  “Mind if I ask who?”

  “A man who went by the same of Thayer, a former Spartan who was exiled for abandoning his post.”

  “Where’d you meet this guy?”

  “In Memphis.”

  “How’d he die?”

  “I killed him.”

  “Oh.”

  Blade looked at Rikki’s inscrutable face, then at the highway. This was news to him. He resolved to get to the truth of the matter at the earlier opportunity. “I hope we do find these Spartans,” Blade mentioned. “We could always use another ally in the Federation.”

  “If they’ll join,” Teucer said.

  “I don’t see why they wouldn’t. It would be in their best interest to sign the mutual defense pact. They’d be able to trade with the Civilized Zone and the Free State of California for goods impossible to find in the Outlands. And they’d have friends they could rely on should they be attacked,” Blade stated.

  “Everyone should have friends,” Teucer observed philosophically, and as was his habit, launched into a poem.

  “He who gets and never gives will lose the truest friend that lives;

  he who gives and never gets will sow his friendships with regrets;

  giving and getting, thus alone, a friendship lives—or dies a-moan.”

  “Who wrote that?” Blade queried.

  “A poet named Alexander MacLean.”

  “Cute,” Blade said.

  Teucer sat up. “Cute? Poetry is more than merely cute. Poetry is an expression of the soul, an attempt to reach out for spiritual values. Poetry is language at its most beautiful.” He paused. “Poetry is artistic expression.”

  “Excuse me for living,” Blade mattered.

  “Why do you like poetry so much?” Rikki asked the bowman.

  “I’ve been hooked on it since I was a kid. My mom read me a poem every night when she tucked me into bed. I guess I learned to appreciate it fully,” Teucer responded, and glanced at the grant. “Unlike some people I can think of.”

  Blade knew the remark was directed at him and grinned, then turned serious. “Rikki, what do you know about these Spartans?”

  “Not a great deal. Apparently their society is patterned after ancient Sparta. Like their namesakes, they’re a war-oriented cultur
e.”

  “This Spartan you knew. What was he like?”

  “One of the best fighters I’ve ever encountered. He was my equal at hand-to-hand.”

  “Really?” Teucer interjected. “You’re the best martial artist in the Family.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Rikki replied. “Blade and Yama are as talented as I am.”

  “Blade maybe,” Teucer agreed. “But as good as Yama is, he’s not quite in your class.”

  Rikki smiled for the first time in hours. “Tell that to Yama.”

  “No way. I’m not about to commit suicide.”

  For a minute they rode in silence. The condition of the highway improved marginally.

  Blade idly surveyed the trees lining both sides of the road, his left elbow resting on the window, the air stirring his hair. He estimated the temperature to be in the seventies. Not bad for the first week in November. The weather had been exceptionally mild for weeks, and all of the trees still bore their leaves.

  A slight curve appeared ahead.

  Slowing marginally, Blade negotiated the curve with ease, alert for the cutoff to Dorchester and debating whether they should check out the town. A flutter of wings to his left drew his attention to five crows flapping into the air, and when he faced front again his eyes widened in alarm and he went rigid.

  Not 30 feet distant, racing directly toward the SEAL, terror showing on her face, was a young woman.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Blade frantically spun the steering wheel to the left and tramped on the brake pedal. The SEAL slewed violently, straight at the woman, who had halted in her tracks and was gaping at the vehicle in stark astonishment, and for a moment he thought the transport would plow right over her.

  Then the rear end swung back again, and the SEAL shot past her, missing her body by inches. The huge tires squealed in protest as the green van lurched to a stop.

  All three Warriors were whipped forward; all reacted instantly. Blade merely gripped the steering wheel harder. Rikki pressed his hands to the dash. And Teucer caught himself by bracing his arms against the front seats.

  “Warn a guy, why don’t you?” the bowman quipped.

  Blade threw the gearshift into Park, shoved the door wide, and leaped out. He ran around the rear of the transport and found the woman still rooted in place, gawking. Her luxuriant shoulder length hair was black, her eyes brown. A blue shirt and brown pants, both of which were faded and worn, clung to her shapely body. “Hello,” he said, and held his hands out to indicate his peaceful intentions. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  Rikki and Teucer joined the giant.

  “Why were you running?” Blade asked. “Are you in danger?”

  The question snapped the woman out of her daze. She looked past them, back the way she had come from, and the terrified aspect returned.

  “Yes,” she stated.

  “From what?”

  “From that!” she cried, and pointed.

  Blade spun, his hands dropping to his Bowies, not knowing what to expect, but certainly not expecting the monstrosity that was charging toward them, a monstrosity that vented a tremendous roar.

  “Dear Spirit!” Teucer breathed.

  The creature was a mutation. Six and a half feet in height, with a thick body and stout limbs, the thing vaguely resembled a bear in its general shape, but there the comparison ended. Where bears spent most of their time on all fours and only rose on their hind legs for brief intervals, the onrushing beast ran on two legs just like a human, although with a shuffling, awkward gait. Instead of hair it had reddish, lumpy skin. Its elongated mouth contained wicked, tapered teeth. A pair of triangular ears crowned a rounded head. Most horrible of all were the eyes. They were oversized, as big as apples, and had tiny red pupils.

  “Run!” the woman screamed.

  The Warriors had no intention of doing so.

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi moved to meet the deviate, gliding gracefully, his long black scabbard wedged under his belt and slanted across his left hip. He assumed a back stance, both hands on the hilt of the sword he could wield with unparalleled precision, and waited for the creature to reach him.

  Blade drew his Bowies and went to aid his friend, wishing he had taken the time to retrieve his Commando submachine gun from the rear storage section of the SEAL. The creature sported five inch claws on each front paw, which combined with its size and ferocity made it a formidable adversary. The Commando could slay the deviate in seconds, whereas with the Bowies it would be much more difficult. He saw Rikki’s arm move, saw the martial artist’s gleaming katana streak from the scabbard, and with the mutation only 20 feet away he braced for the onslaught. Only the monstrosity never reached them.

  A swishing sound arose behind them, and a long green shaft sped into the creature’s chest with a pronounced thud. The thing roared again and paused to swipe at the object protruding from its flesh. Another swish sounded, and yet another, the second an instant after the first, and two arrows lanced into the mutation’s eyes, one in each red pupil. For a moment the creature went rigid, snarling hideously, and then it toppled onto its left side, convulsed for a bit, and expired.

  Blade and Rikki exchanged glances.

  “Apparently we weren’t needed,” said the man in black.

  “Don’t you just hate show-offs?” Blade asked.

  Teucer walked past them, another arrow already notched, and warily approached the beast. He nudged its head several times, and satisfied the thing was dead, he lowered his bow.

  The woman ran over to them, staring at the mutation in disbelief. “You saved my life! That thing chased me for half a mile!”

  “Glad we could assist you,” Blade mentioned, sliding the Bowies into their sheaths.

  “I meant him,” the woman stated, indicating the bowman. She stared at him with frank, adoring eyes.

  “It was nothing,” Teucer said, walking up to her.

  “Are you kidding?” she replied. “You were magnificent.”

  The bowman grinned and slid the arrow into the quiver he had slung over his back while exiting the transport.

  “I guess I was, wasn’t I?”

  “Oh, brother,” Rikki mumbled, replacing the katana in a smooth, practiced motion.

  “Who are you men?” the woman inquired, and looked at the SEAL. “And what is that vehicle of yours? I’ve never seen one like it.”

  “Our transport is unique,” Blade disclosed. “As for our names, I’m Blade. This is Rikki,” he said, and nodded at the man in black. “And the man who lucked out and hit the mutation named himself Teucer.”

  She stared at the bowman. “You named yourself?”

  “Sure did, my dear. After a bowman in The Iliad. It’s common practice at the place we’re from to have a special Naming Ceremony on our sixteenth birthday. We’re encouraged to select any name we want, from any source, as our very own.”

  “I never heard of such a thing.”

  “What’s your name?” Blade questioned.

  “Erica. Erica Johnson.”

  “Do you live around here?”

  “Less than a mile away, on the outskirts of Dorchester. My dad has a farm.” She paused. “I was out for a walk.”

  “Would you take us there?” Blade queried.

  “No,” Erica said, shaking her head.

  “We’ll give you a lift,” Blade offered. “I promise no harm will come to you.”

  “It’s not that. You’re strangers. You must leave, and leave quickly.”

  “Why?”

  “Just go, please,” Erica advised, and began to head to the south.

  “Wait,” Blade said. “Explain the reason we should leave.”

  “I told you. You’re strangers.”

  “So?”

  The woman was almost abreast of the dead deviate. She looked back.

  “Please go. I feel I owe you for saving me, and I’m trying to return the favor.”

  “Hold on, fair maiden,” Teucer stated, an
d beckoned for her to return.

  “We need information and you’re the only one who can provide it.”

  Erica stopped, “All right. But be quick about this. If they find you, you’ll be taken into custody.”

  “If who finds us?” Teucer asked.

  “The Spartans, of course.”

  Rikki-Tikki-Tavi took a step toward her. “Then we’re near Sparta?”

  “You’re close. You have to go another ten miles on this highway, then take a gravel road to the east about four miles. But you don’t want to go there.”

  “Yes, we do,” Rikki informed her. “We’ve traveled a long distance to find the Spartans.”

  “Then you’re crazy. They aren’t very fond of strangers. If you’re lucky, they’ll escort you far, far away and tell you to never come back. If not, you could wind up in chains,” Erica warned. “Please leave. Now.”

  “Are you a Spartan?” Blade inquired.

  “I wish. No, I’m a Helot.”

  “What’s a Helot?” asked Teucer.

  “One of the farming class that raises all the food for Sparta. Each Helot is allotted fifty acres on which to grow the required quota. Any extra the Helot gets to keep.”

  “How many Helots are there?” Blade wanted to know.

  “I’m not sure. Over two thousand, I think. Maybe three thousand.”

  “And how many Spartans?”

  “There you’ve got me. Last I heard, about nine hundred. Probably more by now.”

  “Only nine hundred?” Rikki said.

  “What did you expect?” Erica answered, and gestured at the van.

  “Please, for the last time, get out of here. A patrol could show up at any minute.”

  “We can’t leave,” Blade declared. “We’re emissaries from the Freedom Federation, and we came to extend an invitation to the Spartan people and their leader.”

  “Leaders, you mean. The Spartans are ruled by two kings.”

  “Then we must present our message to them.”

  The woman shook her head. “You’re just asking for trouble.”

  “It won’t be the first time,” Blade stated. “And since we’re going no matter what, and we’re heading the same direction you are, why not ride with us? You’ll get home that much faster.” He pointed at the mutation.