“Blade’s wife said you wanted to see all of us,” Geronimo said.
Plato nodded. “We must discuss the Freedom Federation conference.”
“But it’s not for two months yet,” Hickok stated.
“I don’t believe in leaving important details until the very last minute,” Plato said earnestly.
“We had a conference here about six months ago,” Blade said. “We didn’t have any problems then. All we had to do was post additional Warriors on the walls.”
“True,” Plato admitted. “But I’ve received a most disturbing communication from Wolfe.”
Blade’s piercing, gray eyes narrowed. Wolfe was the leader of the Moles, dwellers in a subterranean city located over 50 miles southeast of the Home. “When did you get word from Wolfe?”
“Late last night,” Plato said. “His messenger arrived after you had retired, and I didn’t see the need to awaken you.”
“Where’s this messenger now?” Geronimo asked.
“Sleeping in B Block,” Plato said. “He was extremely fatigued from the journey. After he delivered his report, we fed him and told him to catch up on his sleep.”
“So what was the message?” Blade asked the Family Leader.
Plato stretched and gazed at a group of children playing tag. “Evidently the Moles captured someone near their city. Wolfe suspected the man was spying and interrogated him. Unfortunately,” Plato said, frowning, “this alleged spy did not survive the interrogation.”
“Did he spill the beans before he kicked the bucket?” Hickok asked.
Plato glanced at the gunman. “Your colorful colloquialisms never cease to astound me.”
“Can you lay that on me again?” Hickok responded. “In plain English this time?”
“Forget that!” Blade said, a bit impatiently. As head Warrior, his paramount concern was the safety of the Family. And if Wolfe was alarmed enough to send a messenger, the message must be critical. “What was the rest of the runner’s report?”
“The man the Moles caught would not divulge any details concerning his origin or his reason for being near the Mole city,” Plato said, “but he did make a few perplexing statements before he died.”
“Like what?” Blade prompted.
“He gloated before he expired,” Plato said. “He told Wolfe the Moles would all be dead before the year is done. He bragged that the Freedom Federation would be history, as he put it, before too long.”
“How did he know about the Freedom Federation?” Blade asked.
“That’s what bothered Wolfe,” Plato stated. “That, and the equipment the man was carrying when apprehended.”
“What equipment?” Geronimo interjected.
Plato scanned the compound. “I sent Bertha after it.” He spotted a dusky-hued woman approaching from the armory, A Block. “When I first saw you coming.”
Bertha was another of the Family’s Warriors, a member of Gamma Triad. She was remarkably lovely in a striking sort of way. Her features conveyed an abundance of inner strength and a supreme self-confidence.
Curly black hair cascaded over her ears and down to her shirt collar. She wore tight-fitting fatigues and black boots. Her brown eyes lit up at the sight of Hickok. “Hey there, White Meat!” she cried out. “What’s happening?”
“Not much,” Hickok replied uneasily.
“Relax, sucker!” Bertha said, laughing. “I ain’t gonna jump your buns in public!”
Hickok hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt and glared at her. “How many times do I gotta tell you to stop talking to me like that? I’m married, remember?”
Bertha chuckled and nudged him with her left elbow. “I can’t help it if I think you’re the best-lookin’ hunk in the Home!”
Geronimo couldn’t resist the opening. “If you think Hickok is the best-looking man here,” he chimed in, “then I’d suggest you have your eyes examined by the Healers!”
“Bertha!” Blade snapped with a tone of authority in his voice.
Bertha straightened and faced the giant Warrior, her chief. “Yes, sir,” she said, all seriousness.
“Everybody knows you still have a crush on Hickok,” Blade said, “but now’s not the time to indulge it.” He pointed at the items in her right hand. “Are these what Plato sent you to get?”
Bertha nodded and extended her right arm. “Yes, sir. Here you go.”
Blade took the two pieces of equipment, a square, black box and a futuristic rifle. “Thank you. That’s all for now.”
Bertha wheeled, puckered her lips in Hickok’s direction, smirked, and walked off.
“You were a mite hard on her, weren’t you?” Hickok commented.
“We’re Warriors,” Blade stated testily. “We’re supposed to be disciplined. There’s a time and a place for everything.” He saw the others studying him, silent accusations in their eyes, and he averted his gaze.
Hickok was right. He had been hard on Bertha. And he knew the reason why. The prospect of another threat to the Freedom Federation, to the Family and the Home, agitated him greatly. The past several months had been peaceful. He’d been able to relax, to enjoy life for a change. The last thing he wanted was another damn threat to the Family’s security! The very idea angered him, and he’d foolishly vented his budding frustration on Bertha.
Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.
“These are what the spy was carrying?” Blade needlessly asked to distract the others.
“Yes,” Plato confirmed. “Wolfe was quite upset by them.”
Blade could readily understand Wolfe’s motives. Both the rifle and the mysterious black box were in superb condition. Indeed, both appeared to be relatively new. But where did they come from? Who had the industrial capability, the manufacturing know-how and resources, to produce items of such superior quality? The shiny black box was outfitted with a row of knobs and control buttons positioned along the bottom of the top panel.
Above the knobs was a glass plate covering a meter of some sort. A small, vented grill occupied the upper right corner. “What is this thing?”
Plato shrugged his skinny shoulders. “We don’t know. The Elders have examined it, but we’re unable to ascertain its function.”
“Can I see that, pard?” Hickok inquired, reaching for the rifle.
Blade handed the gun over.
Hickok whistled in admiration as he hefted the firearm. “This is a right dandy piece of hardware,” he said in appreciation. The entire gun, including the 20-inch barrel and the folding stock, was black to minimize any reflection. The barrel was tipped with a short silencer, and an elaborate scope was mounted above the ejection chamber. A 30-shot magazine protruded from under the rifle near the trigger guard. There were four buttons on one side of the gun, close to the stock, and a small, plastic panel above the buttons. On top of the scope was a fifth button, and extending from the front of the scope, at the top, was a four-inch tube or miniature barrel. “I never saw a gun like this,” Hickok said, marveling, “and I know our gun books in the library like the palm of my hand.”
Plato stroked his pointed chin, running his fingers through his beard.
“Can you imagine the threat if an army, outfitted with a rifle like that one, laid siege to the Home?”
“We’ve fought off attackers before,” Hickok boasted.
“Yes,” Plato concurred, “but they were ill-equipped. The rifle you’re holding is of recent vintage. What if the same people responsible for that automatic rifle can also fabricate larger weaponry on an extensive scale? What then?”
Hickok didn’t answer.
“We must find out where these came from,” Blade announced.
“How?” Geronimo asked. “Wolfe killed the spy.”
“We’ll think of something,” Blade said optimistically.
“We must keep this information amongst ourselves,” Plato said.
“There’s no need to instill unnecessary anxiety in the Family.”
“We’ll keep quiet,” Blade promised. “And I’ll have
a word with Bertha. Who else knows?”
“Ares,” Plato revealed. “He was on guard duty on the west wall last night when the messenger arrived.”
“Ares ain’t exactly a blabbermouth,” Hickok noted.
Ares was the head of Omega Triad and a superlative Warrior.
“But how will we find out where the spy came from?” Geronimo reiterated.
Blade opened his mouth to respond.
The hot air was abruptly rent by the strident blast of a horn sounding from the west rampart, the horn the Warriors used to signal in times of danger!
Chapter Three
The 15 Family Warriors were armed with their favorite weapons and on the brick walls within three minutes of the alarm. Alpha Triad, consisting of Blade, Hickok, and Geronimo, took its posts on the west wall.
They were joined by Beta Triad: the diminutive Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, the Family’s supreme martial artist; the silver-haired Yama, named after the Hindu King of Death; and Teucer, the bowman. Gamma Triad took the north wall: Spartacus, with his ever-present broadsword; the eighteen-year-old Shane, an aspiring gunfighter like his mentor, Hickok; and Bertha. The east wall was manned by the towering, Mohawk-cropped Ares, the head of Omega Triad, and his two subordinates: Helen, a raven-haired Warrior whose namesake was Helen of Troy; and Sundance, the pistol expert. On the south wall stood Zulu Triad, led by the powerhouse Samson, and including Sherry, Hickok’s wife, and Marcus, the self-styled gladiator. Sherry, her M.A.C.-10 held in the crook of her right arm, surveyed the empty field and forest below the wall, thankful little Ringo was being watched by Jenny, Blade’s wife, and worried about her husband on the west wall.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi had been responsible for blowing the horn. Now he was stationed alongside Blade directly above the closed drawbridge, his five-foot frame clothed in black Oriental-style clothing constructed by the Family Weavers, his dark eyes scanning the forest to the west. His attire matched his lineage. Rikki was one of several Family members with an Oriental lineage.
“So what’s the big deal?” Hickok demanded, standing on Rikki’s right.
“There’s nothin’ out there.”
“Be patient,” Rikki advised.
For 150 yards in every direction, the Family diligently kept the land cleared of trees, brush, boulders, and whatever else might be used for concealment by any enemy assaulting the Home. The flat, exposed field gave the Warriors an excellent line of fire. No one could reach the brick walls without sustaining heavy casualties.
Beyond the fields, dense forest prevailed. A crude road, little more than a flattened 15-foot-wide path, was maintained between the western edge of the field and Highway 59, approximately five miles to the west. A mile south from where the makeshift road met Highway 59 was Halma, dwelling place of the Family’s allies, the Clan.
“You sure you didn’t see a deer and mistake it for a mutate?” Hickok asked, joking with Rikki.
Rikki pointed to the west. “Does that look like a deer to you?”
Hickok took a look. “Nope,” he admitted. “It sure don’t, pard.”
A jeep was visible, cresting the rise of a low hill, heading toward the Home.
“It’s about half a mile away,” Geronimo commented.
The jeep was joined by two military troop transports and yet another jeep.
“It’s a small convoy,” Blade observed.
“The only ones we know with vehicles like those are the folks in the Civilized Zone,” Hickok declared.
Blade nodded. Why would the Civilized Zone be sending a convoy to the Home? Even in military vehicles, the trip was fraught with peril and not to be taken lightly.
Someone cleared his throat to Blade’s left.
The giant Warrior turned and discovered Plato had ascended the rampart. “What are you doing up here?” he demanded. “You shouldn’t be up here until we signal it’s all clear.”
Plato smiled. “I wanted to see for myself. I know it’s against our rules.”
Hickok grinned. “You’re settin’ a fine example for the munchkins, old-timer.”
“I promise I will leave at the first hint of hostility,” Plato said to Blade.
Blade frowned. “All right. You can stay. But keep your head down!”
The convoy was rapidly closing on the Home. The leading jeep reached the field west of the compound and angled toward the drawbridge.
“Hold your fire!” Blade commanded. He held a Commando Arms Carbine in his hands. Converted to full automatic by the Family Gunsmiths, and outfitted with a 90-shot magazine for its 45-caliber ammunition, it was a particularly lethal instrument of death.
“Darn!” Hickok stated. “I was hoping for some target practice.” He hefted the Navy Arms Henry Carbine in his right hand.
The other Warriors were likewise armed and ready. Geronimo carried an FNC Auto Rifle and packed an Arminius .357 Magnum in a shoulder holster under his right arm. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi had his cherished katana angled under his black belt, and held a Heckler and Koch HK93 in his arms. Rikki’s Beta Triad companions were equally prepared: Teucer, the bowman, bore a Panther Crossbow, armed with explosive tips instead of razor-edged hunting points, the camouflage shading of the bow with a pull of 175 pounds complementing his green Robin Hood-like wardrobe; while Yama, one of the few Family members who could claim a physique nearly as superbly developed as Blade’s, carried a variety of weapons. Yama was unique among the Warriors. He’d taken his name on his 16th birthday from the Hindu King of Death, not because he leaned toward the Hindu religion spiritually, but because death was his profession and he was an expert at his craft. At Yama’s insistence, the Family Weavers had made a one-piece dark blue garment with the silhouette of a black skull stitched into the fabric between his wide shoulders to serve as his uniform. He normally used a Wilkinson carbine with a 50-shot magazine, a Browning Hi-Power 9 millimeter Automatic Pistol under his right arm, a smith and Wesson Model 586 Distinguished Combat Magnum under his left arm, a 15-inch survival knife strapped to his right hip, and a curved scimitar in a scabbard on his left.
All of the weapons came from the Family armory in A Block. Kurt Carpenter had meticulously stockpiled hundreds of diverse arms in the huge, concrete structure. Rifles, pistols, revolvers, shotguns, machine guns, and others of every conceivable make and description. He also included at least one of each and every type of weapon he could find, everything from Oriental weaponry such as nunchaku and sai and to American Indian artifacts such as Apache tomahawks. Thus, the Warriors were able to satisfy their personal predilections, whether it was Bowies for Blade, a katana for Rikki, a broadsword for Spartacus (because Ares already possessed the only shortsword), or a tomahawk for Geronimo—the only remaining Family member with an Indian heritage. Whatever their tastes, the armory supplied them. Carpenter had predicted the collapse of civilization after the war, and he knew his successors would require considerable firepower if they were to persevere in a world governed by the basic creed of survival of the fittest.
The convoy stopped, the jeep ten yards from the west wall, and a figure in uniform emerged and glanced up at the Warriors.
Blade felt his muscles relax. The man was an officer, about six feet in height with a lean build. His uniform was clean and pressed, with gold insignia on his shoulders. He had black hair, brown eyes, and rugged, honest features. He was General Reese, the foremost military commander in the Civilized Zone under President Toland.
General Reese waved. “Blade! We need to talk!”
Blade returned the wave. “Hold on! We’ll lower the drawbridge.”
Four Family members quickly lowered the massive mechanism, and moments later the convoy wheeled into the compound and parked near the moat.
“Raise the drawbridge,” Blade instructed Rikki. “And keep your Triad here until we find out what’s going on.”
“Will do,” Rikki said.
“After you,” Blade said to Plato, motioning toward the stairs. He waited until Plato was descending, then turned. “You two stay c
lose to me,” he said to Hickok and Geronimo. “I trust Reese, but you never know…” He let the sentence trail off.
“Don’t fret, pard,” Hickok stated. “You can count on us. We’ll back your play all the way.”
Blade hastened after Plato, Hickok and Geronimo in tow.
General Reese had climbed from his jeep. A dozen soldiers piled from each of the troop transports, and four more from the second jeep. The troopers formed into two rows, standing at attention.
Blade saw a man and a woman step from the general’s vehicle. They wore green uniforms similar to those worn by the Civilized Zone soldiers, but theirs were a darker green and the new fabric clung to their bodies.
Both the man and the woman were well-proportioned, conveying considerable strength in their posture, in the muscular contours of their physiques, and in the alertness of their eyes. Both wore their black hair in crewcuts, and both had pistols strapped to their right hips. Professional military types, obviously, but there was something about them, perhaps in the simple way they carried themselves, serving to set them apart and above the troopers from the Civilized Zone. Neither the man’s square features nor the woman’s angular facial lines reflected any warmth or humor.
“Hello, General Reese,” Blade said as they reached the vehicles. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Blade!” General Reese advanced and extended his right hand. “The same here!” He shook hands warmly, then faced Plato. “And you, sir, must be the Family Leader I’ve heard so much about. It is a pleasure to meet you at last.”
Plato shook hands. “And I have heard about you. President Toland informed me at our last conclave how instrumental you’ve been in assisting in the reorganization of the Civilized Zone government.”
“President Toland flatters me,” General Reese said.
Blade indicated his two friends. “This is Hickok.”
“The famous gunfighter?” General Reese asked.
Hickok’s chest puffed up a good inch. “I reckon my name does get bandied about a mite.” He offered his right hand.
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