Dakota Run

by David Robbins

  But something did.

  Ferret, amazed, saw Ox rise from cover behind the Family member. The Tiller sensed danger and started to turn, his face contorting in horror when Ox’s brawny hands clamped onto his neck and squeezed. Ferret could see the man’s discolored expression as he valiantly struggled for air, kicking and thrashing to no avail. Ox grinned, his bony blue fingers slowly crushing his victim’s throat, gouging into the soft flesh and splitting it apart. The Tiller gasped and gurgled as Ox lifted him bodily from the ground and, with a savage wrench, tore the head from the body. The headless form toppled to the grass, blood gushing from the severed neck vessels.

  Ox grinned, raised the head to his lips, and hungrily slurped at the stump below the chin.

  Enraged, Ferret rose from concealment and advanced on Ox. “You damn idiot! What the hell did you think you were doing?”

  Ox, flabbergasted at the reproach, ceased his meal and lowered the grisly head. “He heard us. We couldn’t let him tell the others.”

  “You big jerk!” Ferret fumed, his tiny ears twitching. “He just heard voices. For all he knew, it was some kids playing in the trees. If you’d left him alone, moron, he would have gone about his business none the wiser!”

  Ox stared at the body, embarrassed. “Gee, Forest, I didn’t think…”

  “You never think!” Ferret exploded, forgetting the necessity for silence.

  “You don’t have a brain to think with! A turnip has more intelligence than you do, fool!”

  “Well,” Ox said, attempting to appease his small friend, “at least we have some food…”

  Ferret, beside himself, kicked Ox on the right shin. “Food! That’s all you ever think of!”

  Ox, although he scarcely felt the blow, winced. “I’m sorry, Ferret, Please don’t be mad at Ox!”

  Ferret glanced around, insuring they were still alone. “We must hide the body. We’ll drag it into the woods and bury it. You’d best hope the Family doesn’t miss him and send Warriors looking for this Tiller before we locate the one we’re here to find!”

  “Please don’t be mad at Ox!” the blue colossus repeated.

  Ferret looked up at the pitiful, pleading countenance on Ox. “How can I stay mad at someone who can’t tell his right foot from his left?”

  Ox, perplexed, gazed down. “What do my feet have to do with it?”

  Ferret, exasperated, sighed and shook his head. The Doktor’s handiwork sometimes left a lot to be desired.

  “Are you still mad?” Ox anxiously inquired.

  “No,” Ferret replied, lying. “I’m not still mad! But you better give me your word you won’t make another move unless you consult with me first. Agreed?”

  Ox eagerly nodded. “Ox won’t kill another person unless he asks you first!”

  “Good!” Ferret pointed at the prone form sprawled in a spreading pool of its own blood. “You snuffed him, you carry him! Come on!” He beckoned for Ox to follow and headed for the thickest cover he could find.

  Ox shuffled behind him, the Tiller carelessly draped over his left shoulder, a red stain oozing down his broad back.

  Ferret reached an ideal spot and nodded at the earth underfoot. “Okay. Here’s a good place. Start digging.”

  “Whatever you want,” Ox said. “Hold this for me.” He tossed the Tiller’s head to Ferret.

  Ferret reflexively caught Ox’s trophy, appalled and fascinated by the gruesome visage. The farmer’s eyes were frozen wide open, the blue orbs seemingly gaping at Ferret in astonishment; his lips were almost purple and puffy; and his tongue protruded from the right corner of his mouth.

  Ferret suppressed an impulse to shudder. He could kill and maim with the best of them, but he didn’t revel in the gore and the slaughter as some of his fellows enthusiastically did; he simply wasn’t as bloodthirsty. Many of the G.R.D.’s displayed a singular purpose, namely to murder at the Doktor’s bidding.

  They functioned as the Doktor’s personal assassin corps, obedient to his every whim. Others, like Ferret, although they dared not publicly question the Doktor’s commands for fear of the lethal consequences, privately hated the Doktor and longed for an escape from his ruthless dictates.

  “Is this deep enough?” Ox asked, interrupting Ferret’s reflection.

  Ferret blinked, collecting his thoughts. Ox had scooped a six-foot trench in the soft dirt, about two feet deep. “It’s fine,” Ferret stated. “Drop the body in and cover it up.”

  “Can I keep the head?” Ox queried expectantly.

  “Why?”

  “I like brains. They’re my favorites!”

  “All right,” Ferret agreed. “But I don’t want to hear another peep from you about food until the job is done. Understand?”

  Ox beamed and resumed his burial detail.

  Ferret removed the baseball cap from the Tiller’s head. “Here. You won’t be eating this.” He tossed the cap into the trench.

  Ferret laid the head on the grass and walked to a nearby tree. He crouched and rested his back against the trunk. If only they could complete their mission and return to the Civilized Zone! He wasn’t particularly happy with the assignment; he rather admired the one they were here to terminate. It wasn’t often one of the G.R.D.’s managed to slip through the Doktor’s fingers. Inwardly, Ferret wished he could do likewise.

  Ox was busily filling in the grave.

  Still, Ferret realized, there was no way he could dispute the Doktor’s orders. Either he obeyed or he died. It was as simple as that. No matter what his personal feelings might be, the outcome was inevitable: Gremlin must die!

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sun was rising above the eastern horizon in a cloudless sky, the birds chirping and singing as they greeted a new day, when Blade walked from B Block and lazily stretched. He wore green fatigue pants and his leather vest and was armed with his Bowies in their respective sheaths on both hips. He decided he would visit C Block and check on the two prisoners. They were being held in the Family infirmary under Warrior guard. One of the captured soldiers, the officer, had sustained a broken nose. The other trooper, according to the Healers, suffered from a mild concussion. Blade was anxious to interrogate the pair, but Plato wouldn’t allow any questioning until the soldiers were somewhat recovered from their ordeal.

  Blade turned left, toward C Block, casually scanning the wide cleared space between the concrete bunkers. His gray eyes passed over the SEAL, then immediately returned to the vehicle, aware that something was amiss.

  The SEAL was the Founder’s pride and joy. Kurt Carpenter had spent millions of dollars on its development and construction, wisely foreseeing that his beloved Family would require an exceptionally durable and versatile vehicle to travel across the dramatically altered post-war terrain.

  SEAL was an acronym for Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle. The green van-like transport was powered by the sun, a pair of solar panels attached to the roof collecting the sunlight and a bank of six revolutionary batteries mounted under the vehicle serving to store the converted energy. The SEAL’s body was an impervious plastic, its four enormous tires composed of a unique, indestructible synthetic. To the Family, the SEAL was a virtual godsend, enabling those who used it to travel vast distances protected from the numerous lethal denizens proliferating unchecked across the entire land.

  Ordinarily, the SEAL was kept locked to deter a theft or worse. Two months ago a saboteur had attempted to demolish the transport with explosives, and Blade readily recalled his timely intervention and fight with the mysterious intruder. Since that disturbing incident, the Warriors were instructed to scrutinize the vehicle at every opportunity, and Plato personally verified the SEAL was secure each night before retiring. The night before, Blade had observed his mentor standing beside the transport and tugging on the driver’s door handle, guaranteeing the door was fastened shut.

  Now that same door hung wide open.

  Was Plato up this early and working on the vehicle?

&nbs
p; Unlikely.

  Blade ran toward the SEAL, his big hands on his Bowies. Who else would be in the transport this time of the day? No one he could think of.

  Only Alpha Triad knew how to drive the SEAL, and Hickok was still asleep.

  With Geronimo absent, there wasn’t anyone else authorized to be inside the vehicle.

  So who was it?

  Ten feet from the open door Blade reduced his speed and crept forward, prepared to draw his Bowies at the slightest hint of danger.

  If it was another damn saboteur, Blade vowed, he’d gut the bastard on general principles.

  Blade was five feet away when he heard the humming and relaxed, releasing his knives. What in the world was she doing in there?

  The hummer was a young girl of twelve dressed in homemade buckskins, buckskins made by her deceased mother. She was huddled under the dashboard, her beautiful black hair obscuring her face and falling to her waist. Her name was Star and she was, so far as anyone knew, the sole survivor of the Flathead Indians of Montana. The rest of her tribe had vanished after a confrontation with the soldiers from the Cheyenne Citadel. Plato and his wife Nadine had adopted the girl and accepted her as their own and she had adapted marvelously to Family life.

  Blade leaned against the SEAL, grinning. He saw Plato’s keys lying on the dash and realized how Star had gotten inside.

  The interior of the transport was spacious. Two bucket seats were positioned in the front with a console between them. Behind the bucket seats was a single seat running the width of the vehicle. A large storage area completed the interior design.

  Silently, Blade eased toward Star until his head and shoulders were inside the SEAL.

  “Boo!”

  His shout terrified the poor girl. She involuntarily jumped, cracking the top of her head on the dash-board. Her dark eyes swung around and caught sight of Blade.

  “Owwww! My head!” Star frowned, rubbing her bruise, and glared at the strapping Warrior.

  Blade began laughing.

  “What’d you do that for?” she demanded, annoyed. “I could have been hurt!”

  “It would serve you right,” Blade countered, chuckling.

  “What do you mean?” Star asked.

  “It would serve you right for swiping Plato’s keys and sneaking into the SEAL without permission,” Blade explained to her.

  Star’s mouth fell open. “How did you know?”

  “It didn’t take a genius to figure it out,” Blade retorted. “The question is why.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “You got it,” he confirmed.

  Star jerked her left thumb toward the dashboard. “I’m looking for clues.”

  “Clues?”

  “Clues,” she nodded. “Something that might tell us about the toggle switches.”

  The toggle switches! Blade’s brow knit as he stared at the four switches in the center of the dash. Each was labeled with a single letter below it: M, S, F, and R. Mystery surrounded the toggle switches because their function was unknown.

  Kurt Carpenter had buried the SEAL in a specially fabricated underground chamber with explicit orders that the transport was to remain untouched until a critical situation developed and the Family Leader decided the vehicle was needed. After a century, Plato had been the Leader who had finally opted to uncover the chamber and retrieve the SEAL. Inside the chamber the Family had also found detailed instructions, an Operations Manual, explaining every aspect of the vehicle with one glaring exception: the toggle switches. Plato had given specific directions to Alpha Triad, advising them to avoid even touching the switches until their purpose was discovered.

  Only one person had violated Plato’s edict.

  Star.

  While in Montana, during a battle with Government troops, she had inadvertently bumped one of the switches, the one marked with an R.

  Although the soldiers had seen what transpired next, unfortunately none of them had survived to tell anyone else. Blade and Star had been inside the vehicle at the time, and they vividly remembered the SEAL lurching, followed by a tremendous explosion. The Citadel troops had been destroyed in the blast.

  But why?

  What had caused it?

  “Why are you so interested in the toggle switches?” Blade asked her.

  “Curiosity,” Star responded.

  “What makes you think you’ll find something in here?”

  Star straightened and reclined against the console. “It’s the logical place to look.”

  “How do you figure?” Blade inquired.

  “Your Founder planned everything so well,” Star said. “He laid out the Home and stocked all the provisions. He had this vehicle built for your future use. Carpenter left nothing to chance. There must be instructions about these toggle switches somewhere.”

  Blade resisted the temptation to dispute Star’s logic. For a twelve year old, she was extremely bright, even by Family standards. The girl was a voracious reader; since arriving in the Home she had spent every spare minute in the Family library.

  “Don’t you agree?” she asked him.

  “What you say makes sense,” Blade concurred, “but there may be an explanation for the missing directions.”

  “What?”

  “As you probably know,” Blade began, “Carpenter was afraid someone might be tempted to steal the SEAL if he left it above ground. That’s part of the reason he hid it in the underground chamber. The Family Leaders have passed on the news of its existence by word of mouth from one Leader to another. Isn’t it possible one of the Leaders neglected or was unable to pass on the information about the toggle switches?”

  “Hmmmmm.” Star tapped on the console, eyeing the switches, her fertile mind weighing the probabilities.

  Blade had to admire the young firebrand. He wondered which vocation she would choose for her career. Her natural vitality tended to exclude any of the less exciting options like Weaver or Librarian. He could easily envision her as a Warrior, or possibly she would devote her life to one of the sciences.

  “I don’t think so,” she finally stated.

  “To tell you the truth,” he admitted, “I don’t think so either. Carpenter obviously spent a considerable amount of money converting the SEAL, modifying it, and incorporating armament into the body. If he went to all that trouble to install the equipment, he’d want to be certain the Family knew it was there.”

  “And there’s no mention of it in the Operations Manual?” Star probed.

  Blade spotted the Manual on the back seat. He picked it up and tossed it to Star. “See for yourself. I’ve read the whole book three times and there’s no mention of the toggle switches.”

  Star opened the Manual to the first page, the Table of Contents.

  Twenty-five chapters were listed, covering the solar panels, the engine, the batteries, the transmission, and everything else in the transport down to the windshield wipers. “I don’t understand very much of this,” Star acknowledged.

  “Neither did we until Plato explained it,” Blade informed her.

  “Why’d you do this?” she asked, running her right index finger across the page.

  “Do what?”

  “Mark the page up this way.” She glanced up, puzzled.

  Blade, equally perplexed, extended his left hand. “What are you talking about?”

  “Here,” she said, offering the Manual. “See for yourself.”

  Blade took the Manual and examined the page. “What? It’s just a list of the contents.” He couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

  “Look real close,” Star prompted him.

  “I’m looking,” Blade said, confused.

  “Do you see it?”

  “See what?” Blade snapped impatiently.

  “Whoever heard of dotting an H?” Star inquired, mystified.

  Dotting an H? What did she…

  He suddenly saw what she meant.

  “Damn!” he inadvertently exclaimed. Right in front of their faces the w
hole time! The first H on the page had a tiny black dot above it, so small it would be overlooked as a speck on the paper. In the next line an E was below one of the dots. Further along two different L’s were dotted, as was an O in the following line. The dots were even smaller than the ones used to dot the L’s and wouldn’t attract attention unless you were looking for something unusual. Let’s see. He mentally ticked off the first five dotted letters. HELLO.

  “Hello,” he said aloud.

  “Hello to you.” Star grinned. “Do you think we’re on to something?”

  “I think if you were ten years older Jenny would have some serious competition,” he told her.

  Star giggled. “Don’t tell Jenny. She might get jealous!”

  Blade closed the Manuel and gave the book to her. “Take this to Plato right this instant.”

  Star started to clamber over the console toward him. “What if he’s still asleep? He isn’t feeling too good lately, what with having the senility and all.”

  Blade assisted her in exiting the transport. “Wake him up. Insist. Tell him it’s important and show him the Operations Manual. He has plenty of paper and pencils in his cabin. He’ll be able to decipher the message in no time.”

  Star stood next to him, staring at the book. “You think it will tell us about the toggle switches?”

  “I’d bet on it,” Blade nodded.

  “But why did the Founder leave a secret note? Why do it this way?” she queried.

  “My guess would be he wanted it kept a secret,” Blade reasoned.

  “Maybe one of the early Leaders knew about it but passed on before revealing what he knew. Who can say?” He spun her around and patted her on the back. “Get going!”

  Star began running.

  “Wait!” Blade abruptly called.

  She stopped and faced him. “What’s wrong?”

  Blade picked up the keys from the dash and locked the door. “We wouldn’t want anyone to sneak into the SEAL, would we?” He flipped the keys to her and watched as she raced toward the cabins.

  “Much excitement, yes?” shouted someone off to his left.