David L. Robbins - Endworld 01 - The Fox Run

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2024-12-23 0 0 421.72KB 181 页 5.9玖币
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The Fox Run
by
David L. Robbins
Chapter One
The blasted dog pack still had his scent!
Blade paused, angry, his gray eyes smoldering, his head cocked to one
side, listening intently. How long had they been after him now? Sweat
soaked his thick, curly hair and caked his green canvas pants and tattered
fatigue shirt to his muscular body. At least a dozen were on his trail, their
eager baying filling the morning air. They were close, too close, and
narrowing the gap rapidly.
Just what he needed!
Blade ran, balancing the deer carcass on his broad right shoulder,
hefting his bow in his left hand. The quiver of arrows on his back and the
Bowie knife on each hip bounced as he moved. He'd never make it to the
Home with the extra weight, and after the three days of tracking it took
him to bag the buck, three days with little sleep and less food, he wasn't
about to abandon the meat to the dogs.
No way!
Blade knew he was only two miles from the Home, two miles from
shelter and comfort, two miles from help. But the others had no idea when
he would return, they didn't know which direction he would be coming
from, and they wouldn't be this far from the Home under normal
circumstances anyway. In short, he couldn't rely on any aid from his
friends.
He was up the creek without a paddle. Blade smiled grimly. Who was he
kidding? He was up the creek without a canoe.
The howling was louder, closer. The fleetest of the pack had the fresh
scent of blood in their nostrils, and the aroma goaded them to increased
speed.
Blade ran over the crest of a small hill and paused. A natural clearing
was forty yards away, half the distance down the hill. It would be his best
bet. He would be able to see them coming. Even better, they wouldn't be
able to sneak up on him and nip his hamstrings when his back was
turned.
The first dog must have spotted him because a tremendous howl split
the dawn.
Blade hurried, running for all he was worth, the buck slowing him down,
though, impeding his progress, and he knew he was in trouble, knew he
wouldn't quite make the clearing, even before, he heard the patter of
rushing pads on the hard ground and then the ominous, throaty growl
from a canine pursuer. He tried to whirl, but he was too late, his
movements hampered by the weight of the buck.
The dog hit him squarely in the center of his back, the buck absorbing
the brunt of the brutal impact, the force of the blow still sufficient to drive
Blade to his knees, and he dropped the deer and twisted, his right-hand
Bowie drawn and ready, held waist high, the blade extended.
He's show these bloodsuckers how he got his nickname!
The lead dog was a big one, called a German shepherd in the days before
the Big Blast. Huge, hungry, and deadly, it curled its lips back to display
long, sharp teeth, its body crouched, its legs tensed for the spring.
The bow had landed to one side. The buck was lying on the ground
between them.
"Come and get it!" Blade hissed.
The dog obliged. The German shepherd leaped, snarling.
Blade side-stepped, his right hand flashing, the Bowie slicing into the
dog, opening its neck, crimson spurting over the grass.
The dog yelped and landed unsteadily, wavering, stunned by the sudden
loss of blood.
Blade put his Bowie in its sheath and scooped up his bow. He drew an
arrow and fired in one smooth, practiced motion, the dog dead on its feet
before it realized what had happened, and Blade was spinning, another
arrow ready, because the pack was on him now, and the second dog was
caught in midair, the arrow thudding into the hairy brown chest and
toppling the animal to one side.
The pack didn't miss a beat.
Another dog, a mixed breed, came in low and fast and struck Blade in
the legs as he was notching another arrow to the bow string.
Blade fell, flinging the bow aside, grabbing his Bowie knives, one in each
hand, and he rose to his knees, slashing right and left, frantically cutting
and slicing, berserk, and he lost count of the number of dogs he laid open,
the fur and the dust and the blood flying in every direction, the barking
and snapping and yowling reaching a crescendo.
A Doberman pinscher fearlessly plowed into Blade, slamming into his
chest, bowling him over, exposed and defenseless.
The pack expectantly howled with glee and closed in.
Blade managed to bury his left-hand Bowie in the Doberman. I gave it
my best shot, he thought, which was small consolation for failing to get
the meat back to the Family.
Teeth bit into his left calf.
Another dog had his left wrist in a vise grip.
Blade lunged with his remaining Bowie, ramming the knife into a black
dog's throat. He was surrounded by the raging canines.
One of the dogs to his right was abruptly picked up and smashed to the
earth, and an instant later the blast from the 30-06 carried to Blade's
ears. Another dog, the one gripping his wrist, twisted and dropped away,
flesh and blood erupting from its neck.
Hickok, Blade speculated.
A war whoop was added to the din.
And Geronimo.
Blade grinned, relieved, as the 30-06 continued booming.
Four more of the dogs were down now, and the ones still able took off,
making for the nearest cover, a stand of trees and dense brush twenty
yards to the west.
The rifleman was reluctant to let them go. Two more dogs were dead
before the remnant of the pack reached cover.
Had to be Hickok, Blade knew. Hickok was the best shot, and Geronimo
would be loath to waste the bullets.
Blade slowly stood, taking stock of his wounds. He was bleeding from a
number of bite wounds, but none were particularly severe. His left wrist
was throbbing, the bone exposed. He angrily kicked the dog responsible
for his wounded wrist.
"I think the critter is dead," someone commented.
"He's obviously not a dog lover," added someone else.
Blade turned, smiling.
"You always gotta do everything the hard way?" Hickok asked.
"He likes to do things the hard way," Geronimo observed. "He thinks it
builds his character."
Blade faced his two best friends, grinning.
"We came out of the woods at the bottom of the hill," Hickok said,
pointing, "just as the dogs closed in on you. Had to fire and run at the
same time. Tricky. I was hoping I wouldn't waste a bullet by accidentally
hitting you." He laughed.
"You mean that you were aiming at the dogs?" Geronimo pretended to
be surprised.
Blade shook his head at their antics, delighted they were there.
Hickok was examining the shot dogs, insuring that none of them were
still alive, his lean frame coiled for action. He held his rifle loosely in both
hands, casually sweeping the barrel from side to side. A leather belt was
draped around his hips, a holster hanging from each side, his prized
ivory-handled .357's loaded and gleaming in the sun, reflecting the
meticulous care and attention they received from their owner. And well
they should. With a rifle, Geronimo and one or two others in the Family
might come close to tying Hickok, but with a handgun Hickok was
unequaled in marksmanship, almost uncanny in his speed and ability to
hit any target without consciously appearing to aim his revolver. The
.357's were his by virtue of his skill, and he was called Hickok because he
had selected it on his sixteenth birthday, at his Naming. One of the old
history books called The Gunfighters told of a man long ago who was a
legend with pistols, a man called Hickok, a tall man with blond hair and a
sweeping moustache. It was fitting that sixteen-year-old Nathan, already a
qualified member of the Warrior Class at that early age, should select as
his namesake of the deadliest gunfighter of all time, simply because he,
Nathan, was the most proficient gunman in the Family's history.
The Warrior Class was well trained.
While Hickok checked the dogs, Geronimo kept alert, scanning the tree
line, prepared for any assault. In contrast to the blond, thin Hickok,
Geronimo was stocky and had black hair. Where Hickok had blue eyes,
Geronimo had brown. Where Hickok was tall, Geronimo was short. Where
Hickok had long hair and a moustache like his hero, Geronimo wore his
hair cut short and his face was clean shaven. And what Geronimo lacked
in ability with a handgun, he more than made up for in other areas.
Geronimo was the Family's supreme tracker, a lingering legacy of his
Indian heritage. Geronimo was proud of the Indian in his blood, despite
the fact that Plato had informed him his blood contained, at most,
one-eighth Blackfoot inheritance. Geronimo could hunt, he was immensely
strong, and his eyesight was spectacular at great distances. He was their
best trapper, his trap line in the winter months often being their single
largest supplier of fresh meat and new skins. Even in the worst of weather,
Geronimo would return with food.
Blade, his grey eyes twinkling, motioned at the slain dogs. "Don't think
I'm not grateful for the timely rescue, but how in the world did you know
where to find me? Lucky?"
"Design, Plato would say," Geronimo replied.
"What's that mean?"
"It means," Hickok interjected, "that Hazel told us where to find you.
Specifically, which direction you would be coming from. The timing was
strictly ours. I'm just glad we didn't stop to relieve ourselves."
Hazel. Blade had experienced the results of her unique power several
times in the past. Hazel's official title was Chief Family Empath. The
Family was blessed, currently, with six individuals with psychic
capabilities. Hazel was the oldest, the one with the most sensitive nature.
"Why was Hazel homing in on me?" Blade asked Hickok.
"Plato asked her to." Hickok had completed his check of the dogs; they
were all dead.
"Why?"
"We don't know ourselves," Geronimo answered. "But whatever it is, it's
urgent. Plato sent us to get you back as quickly as we could."
"I wonder what's up?" Blade asked, more to himself than the others.
"Instructions?" Hickok requested of Blade.
Blade paused, pondering. He was the section leader of the Alpha Triad,
and as such he was responsible for issuing orders and implementing
strategy. The Warrior Class was divided into four triads, each with a
designated section leader. Plato had paired Blade with Hickok and
Geronimo and appointed him as the leader. Plato had said that their
teaming "compensated for individual deficiencies and maximized
potential achievement." Plato should know. He was the Family Leader, the
wisest man in the Family.
Hickok and Geronimo were waiting.
"We'll take the buck back, even if it does slow us down a bit," Blade
directed. "The Family needs the food." Blade rubbed his injured wrist.
"You okay?" Geronimo asked.
"I'll make it back." Blade pressed the torn wrist against his left side,
hoping to completely stop the dripping blood. The wound was deep, but
the veins had been spared and his blood loss was minor. He bent over and
retrieved his Bowie from the dead Doberman and slid both knives into
their respective scabbards.
"Think we could use any of the dogs?" Hickok prodded one of the
carcasses with his left moccasin.
"Too mangy," Geronimo stated. "Look at their hides. Sores and blisters
everywhere. The pelts wouldn't do us much good, and the meat would be
too stringy and tough. Who knows what diseases they're carrying?"
"Point taken." Blade nodded in agreement. "Okay. We take the buck and
make tracks. Plato wouldn't want us without very good reason. Hickok,
take the point but keep in constant visual contact.
Geronimo, bring the buck. I'll bring up the rear."
Hickok was already in motion. Geronimo hefted the buck onto his right
shoulder, waited until Hickok was ten yards ahead, then followed.
Blade fell into place behind them, speculating on the explanation for
Plato's summons. He drifted hack in time to his first meeting with the
remarkable scholar and philosopher. Of course, nineteen years ago Plato
wasn't so old, nor was he leader of the Family. He had been elected to that
post only four years ago, after Blade's father had been killed by a mutate.
Blade remembered his first impression of Plato was one of extreme
kindness, conveyed in the gentle blue eyes, the perpetually wrinkled brow,
and the long hair and beard, now gray but then brown.
"So this is your pride and joy?" Plato had said to Blade's father. "And
he's only five? Big for his age. I see he has his dad's dark hair and
abnormal gray eyes." Plato had knelt and studied Blade's youthful, earnest
face. "There is character here. He will be a tribute to both his parents."
Plato had stood, toying with the hairs in his beard as was his habit when
deep in contemplation. "Have you noticed that since the nuclear war our
records indicate each generation contains a proportionally higher
percentage of offspring with hair and eye pigmentation of an unusual
coloration and combination?" This fact, apparently, had greatly impressed
the sage, and Blade had wondered why. Nineteen years later he still didn't
know.
Blade's reverie was shattered by a low, piercing whistle from directly
ahead. The danger signal. He dropped, flattening on the rough ground,
ignoring a stabbing pain in his left wrist, and glanced at Geronimo.
Geronimo was prone too, the buck lying to one side. He was watching
Hickok.
There was a small rise in front of them, covered with bushes. Hickok was
crouched behind one of the larger shrubs, intently watching something on
the other side of the rise. He turned and motioned for them to approach,
but he placed a finger over his lips in cautious warning.
Blade followed Geronimo, crawling on his elbows and knees, his left
wrist now starting to throb. They reached Hickok.
"Mutate," Hickok whispered, and pointed.
Every time he saw one, Blade felt an instinctive urge to puke his guts
out. They were disgusting, repulsive, an aberration of nature, the
consequence of man tampering with cosmic forces better left alone.
This one, once, must have been a black bear.
"Ugly sucker, isn't it?" Hickok asked softly.
An understatement, Blade thought.
The mutate was standing on the eastern bank of a small stream, the
water not more than a foot deep. There was a large pool below the small
rise, about twenty feet in diameter. The mutate was concentrating on the
pool, apparently hunting for fish. The general shape and size of the
creature was that of a bear, and the snout resembled that of a black bear,
but the remainder of the beast was deformed and distorted, grotesque and
bizarre. The black hair was all gone, replaced by huge, blistering sores,
oozing pus from a dozen points, and cracked, dry, peeling brown skin. Two
mounds of green mucus rose in place of the ears. The mutate breathed in
wheezing gasps, the mouth open, the tongue slack and distended. The
teeth were yellow and rotted. The stench was overpowering, and Blade
could feel his stomach beginning to toss.
"We'll swing wide to the south and avoid it," he whispered to the other
two and began to back away.
Hickok was still watching the mutate, and he saw it suddenly rear
upright and sniff the breeze. The wind was blowing from the thing to
them, so it shouldn't be able to detect their scent. Then he remembered
the buck, and he wondered if the deer smell could carry to the mutate
without any strong gust.
The mutate was still smelling, eyeing the rise suspiciously.
Hickok placed his hands on his Colt Pythons.
The mutate shuffled forward and entered the stream, still on its two rear
legs. The massive head was swiveling from side to side, the beady eyes
searching.
A hand dropped on Hackwork's right shoulder.
"Think it has our scent?" Blade asked.
"I reckon," Hickok laconically responded.
"Let's move."
They carefully edged backwards and rejoined Geronimo, patiently
waiting with the buck draped over his shoulder.
"It knows we're here," Geronimo said, immediately assessing the
situation.
"Think so," Hickok said.
They hurried, Blade leading, Geronimo in the center, Hickok bringing
up the rear. They had been heading in a southeasterly direction. With the
mutate blocking their path they were forced to bear south, hoping to
strike an easterly course later on. The Home was only a mile and a half
distant.
That fact worried Blade.
A mutate this close to the Home was disturbing and a potential danger
to the Family, a very real and extremely deadly menace. Thank the Spirit
that the Founder had erected the walls! Without the encircling protection
afforded by the twenty-foot-high brick walls, the Family would have long
since been overrun by the proliferation of wild animals evident in the area
in recent years. The surge in wildlife was inevitable with the decline of
man.
"Maybe we've lost it," Hickok suggested.
The underbrush behind them crackled and snapped and loud snorts
punctuated the mutates determined advance.
"Damn!" Blade fumed, enraged. He thoroughly detested the mutates, in
all their varieties and manifestations. An ordinary black bear would
usually avoid contact with humans, fearing the two-legged horrors as if
they were walking death. But mutates, in whatever form, deviated from
the norm. Every mutate, whether it had once been a bear, a horse, or even
a frog, inexplicably craved meat and stalked living flesh with an insatiable
appetite. No one, not even Plato, knew exactly what caused a mutate.
Plato was particularly desirous of locating, capturing, or killing a young
mutate, a mutate not in adult stages of growth. No one had ever seen any
but an adult mutate. Plato had speculated, many times, that mutates were
the result of the widespread chemical warfare initiated during the nuclear
conflict. If radiation alone was the cause, then logic would dictate that
humans would be affected, and there was not a single report in the entire
Family history of a solitary human mutate. Plato had emphasized over and
over that discovering the reason for the mutates must be a Family
priority. Within the past decade the mutates population had increased
drastically—apparently by geometric progression, according to Plato—and
this fact was fraught with devastating implications.
Blade paused, considering his options. If they continued on their course,
even if they reached the safety of the Home, the mutate would follow them
to the walls, would know where the Family was based, and it might linger
outside, waiting for someone, anyone, to venture outside. Or it might
return from time to time, hoping to catch a human out in the open,
exposed and vulnerable. Blade couldn't allow that to happen.
Hickok and Geronimo were standing still, watching him.
Blade surveyed their surroundings. They had stopped in a small ravine,
no more than a shallow depression, encircled by trees on every side. The
Spirit smiled on them.
"We make our stand here," Blade announced.
Hickok smiled.
Geronimo, knowing what was expected, dropped the deer carcass in the
middle of the ravine.
"Find your spots," Blade advised.
"You better take this," Hickok said, and tossed Blade his rifle.
Blade caught it with his right hand.
"At this range," Hickok went on, "my pistols will be just as effective as
the long gun. Besides, your bow wouldn't hardly scratch a mutate that
big."
Blade grinned and nodded. If the mutate followed their path into the
ravine, and there was every reason to believe it would, then it would enter
from the north, as they had done. That left three points to fire from.
Geronimo was already climbing the west wall, his sturdy legs pumping.
He reached the top and glanced back, his green pants and shirt, sewn
together from the remains of an old tent, making excellent camouflage.
Geronimo disappeared into some trees.
Hickok started up the east slope. "Aim for the head," he said over his
shoulder.
Blade nodded. Frequently, whenever Warriors were socializing, the
subject turned to killing, to the best techniques for downing prey or foe
alike. Some advocated the heart shot, a few the neck, but Hickok was
adamant in his defense of the head shot as the only viable shot to take,
whether with a firearm, a bow, or a slingshot. "If you're aiming to kill,"
Hickok had said one night when the Warriors were gathered around a
roaring fire, "then aim to kill. Any shot but a head shot in a waste of time,
not to mention a danger to yourself and those you're protecting. If you hit
a man or an animal in the chest or neck, or anywhere else except the head,
they can still shoot back or keep coming. It takes several seconds,
sometimes, for the shock of being hit to register, and those seconds can be
fatal for you. But when you hit them in the head, on the other hand, the
impact stuns them immediately, and if you take out their brain, you snuff
them instantly. No mess, no fuss."
Sometimes, Blade reflected, Hickok could be as cold as ice.
Hickok was perched on the rim of the depression, his buckskin-clad
frame hunched over as he intently studied the back trail. He motioned for
Blade to hurry, then vanished behind a boulder.
The mutate must be getting close.
Blade slung his bow over his left shoulder, gripped the rifle in both
hands, and ran up the south slope, the lowest. Dense brush covered the
slope, right up to the tree line. Blade swung behind the first tree and
crouched.
Not a moment too soon.
The mutate appeared at the north end of the ravine. It hesitated,
scanning the terrain, uncertain. Its eyes rested on the dead buck.
Come and get it, gruesome! Blade hefted the rifle, eager for the kill.
Mutates gave him the willies!
This one ambled forward slowly, cautiously, not satisfied with the setup,
raw animal instincts warning it that something was wrong.
Eventually, Blade knew, the thing would approach the deer. Mutates,
like those tiny terrors, shrews, could never get enough to eat. They even
ate one another. That fact, Plato maintained, was the primary reason the
mutates had not taken over the land. Yet.
The thing grunted, evidently deciding it was safe after all, and it
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