Boston Run

Chapter Two

Ten yards from the cabin he heard the low sobs and sniffling coming through the open window situated to the right of the front door and paused. The pitiable crying filled him with sorrow, and he had to force himself to walk up to the door and knock. He pasted a grin on his face and hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt.

No one answered the knock.

He debated whether to try again or leave. She might want to be alone, and the last thing he wanted to do was contribute to her sadness. But he had volunteered to bring her the news. As much as he disliked the notion, he had to tell her.

The sobbing came through the window, unabated.

He knocked louder the second time, using his knuckles to pound on the door. Predictably, the crying ceased.

“Who is it?” she called out.

“It’s me, Jenny. Hickok,” he informed her, and nervously ran his right hand through his long blond hair, then stroked his sweeping mustache.

“Just a moment,” she said.

Hickok could imagine her dabbing at her eyes and checking her appearance in a mirror. He glanced idly down at his buckskins and moccasins, wondering if it was too late for him to head for the hills.

The front door opened.

“Hello,” Jenny said, greeting him, bravely mustering a wan grin. Her green eyes bored into his blue ones. Luxuriant blonde hair fell past her slim shoulders. She wore a pale green blouse and faded, patched jeans.

“Have you heard any news?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Hickok answered, and rested his hands on the pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers riding in a holster on each hip.

Anxiety contorted Jenny’s face and she placed her hands on his upper arms. “Well?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” the gunman said with a heavy heart.

“Out with it,” Jenny urged, shaking him. “Please.”

“All right,” Hickok said, and took a deep breath. “They took him away in a helicopter.”

The words seemed to shrink her before his eyes. She released him, her arms dropping to her sides, her chin drooping to her chest, her posture bowed as if under an enormous weight. “There’s no chance of a mistake?”

she asked almost in a whisper.

Hickok wished that he’d let someone else offer to tell her. “No chance,” he assured her.

“I was afraid of this,” Jenny said.

“It doesn’t mean he’s dead,” Hickok declared, and immediately regretted his rashness when she looked up at him, a haunted aspect to her eyes. He tried to adopt a lighthearted attitude to lessen her remorse. “I reckon I know the Big Dummy as well any anybody, and I know he’ll make it back to us safe and sound.”

“Tell me what you found,” Jenny stated.

“I didn’t find the landing spot myself. The blamed mutants found a field about a mile south of the Home where a helicopter likely landed. At least, from the way all the weeds were bent and broken, and from the impressions left in the soil by the landing gear, we reckon a helicopter was used. We would’ve found the spot sooner, but the varmints who snatched your hubby were pros. They covered their tracks real well. And they sprinkled buck musk along their trail so the mutants couldn’t track them by scent,” Hickok detailed, and frowned. “Heck. It took us four days just to find where the coyotes jumped him.”

“I know,” Jenny said sorrowfully. “I can’t believe he’s been gone a week already.”

“How’s your young’un takin’ it?” Hickok inquired.

“Gabe cried the whole first day, but he’s holding up remarkably well for a boy who isn’t quite five years old,” Jenny replied.

“I saw him playin’ with my sprout a while ago. They were havin’ fun,” Hickok mentioned, hoping to cheer her by discussing their children. The tactic didn’t work.

“Who do you think took him?” Jenny queried, returning to their original subject.

“There’s no way of tellin’,” Hickok said. “You know how many enemies we’ve made ever since we made contact with the outside world. Blade has made more than his share. The Technics, the Superiors, the Guild, the Dragons, the Lords of Kismet, or any one of the other cow chips we’ve stomped are possible suspects. Lynx, Ferret, and Gremlin are still out scourin’ the field. Maybe they’ll find a clue.”

“What if they don’t?”

“Don’t talk like that. The Warriors won’t rest until we discover who took Blade and where they’re holdin’ him.”

Jenny leaned against the jamb and gazed at the trees to the east of the cabin. “I know all of you will try your utmost, and I appreciate your efforts.

But I’m also sensible enough to realize that I may never see my husband again. Like you said, he’s made a lot of enemies. In his capacity as the head of the Warriors, and in his job as the leader of the Force, he’s defeated dozens of power-mongers and crazed killers, some of whom are still alive.”

“They’ll all get theirs one of these days.”

“I miss him,” Jenny declared passionately.

“So do I.”

She closed her eyes and bit her lower lip.

Hickok stared at her in dismay, at a loss to know what to do, deeply affected by her grief. “How about if I send my missus over to sit with you a spell?” he suggested.

“No thanks,” Jenny responded. “I’d rather be alone.”

“You shouldn’t be by your lonesome at a time like this,” the gunman observed. “A person needs friends the most when that person is down in the dumps.”

“Meaning me,” Jenny said.

“If the boot fits,” Hickok joked, then became serious. “We weren’t put on this loco world to be alone; otherwise there wouldn’t be so many folks traipsin’ over the landscape. You have a lot of friends, Jenny, and we’re here if you need us.”

A glimmer of happiness touched her features. “Thanks.”

“So why don’t I have Sherry mosey on over for some chitchat?”

“Are you sure she won’t mind?”

“Are you kiddin’? Sherry will jump at the chance to get out of our cabin.”

Jenny nodded slowly. “Okay. Send her over. I would like someone to talk to.”

“On my way,” Hickok declared, and pivoted to the right. He beamed and waved and ambled around the cabin, bearing to the south. The instant he was out of her sight his expression clouded. He felt like such a hypocrite trying to convince her to look at the bright side of the situation when, in his own heart, he felt they didn’t stand a prayer of locating Blade and bringing him back safely. For one thing, too much time had elapsed since the abduction. For another, whoever took Blade had planned the affair meticulously, which meant they had obviously wanted to specifically grab the head Warrior and no one else. Dozens of Family members used the same route Blade had taken on a daily basis, but the only one kidnapped was him. Why? And who could be behind it?

The gunfighter reflected on the events of the past week as he walked in the direction of his cabin, trying to fit together the pieces of the puzzle for the umpteenth time. Jenny had been right, he decided. It was hard to believe seven days had gone by since his pard disappeared.

The first inkling he’d had that something was wrong came when his stocky Indian friend and fellow Warrior, Geronimo, raced up to his cabin and yelled that Blade hadn’t returned from Halma and was three hours overdue. As Blade’s personal pick to be second-in-command of the Warriors during his absences. Hickok had chosen three other Warriors to accompany Geronimo and himself to the small town located approximately eight miles southwest of the Home. Halma had been abandoned during the war. Six years ago the Family had assisted a large group of refugees from the Twin Cities to settle in Halma, and now the two factions were on the best of terms. The leader of the people in Halma, who called themselves the Clan, was a man named Zahner. Blade and Zahner were close friends. On the day Blade vanished, he’d gone to Halma to visit Zahner.

And never returned.

Hickok selected Beta Triad to help with the search initially. The eighteen Warriors were divided into six Triads of three Warriors apiece.

Alpha, Beta, Bravo, Gamma, Omega, and Zulu Triads were, collectively, the fighting arm of the Family, devoted to safeguarding the Home at all costs. Beta Triad consisted of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi, Yama, and Teucer.

The five of them followed the dirt road connecting the Home to Highway 59, then took 59 south to Halma. A quick check with Zahner revealed Blade had departed almost four hours before the other Warriors got there.

The search was on.

After Hickok, Geronimo, and Beta Triad failed to find any trace of Blade, most of the other Warriors and volunteers from the Home and the Clan combed the countryside until midnight, using lanterns, torches, and the few flashlights in their possession.

It was as if the earth had swallowed the head Warrior up.

The next morning they were right back at the job, using every available person, and although they used a thorough grid pattern to cover the terrain, again nothing was found.

Not until the fourth day had Geronimo located the spot where Blade had been captured. Then the mutant Warriors, the three genetically engineered hybrids who comprised Bravo Triad, had tried to trace the trail by scent and been thwarted by the deer musk. Only this very morning had the mutations finally located the helicopter landing site.

Poor Jenny and little Gabe.

Hickok glanced up at the afternoon sun, feeling the warmth on his skin.

Ordinarily June was one of his favorite months, with the chill of winter long since gone and the lush spring about to give way to the scorching heat of summer. But he scarcely noticed the scenic splendor of the Home as he hastened to his cabin, engrossed in pondering his friend’s abduction.

As near as Geronimo and the hybrids could deduce—and they were the best trackers in the Family—Blade had been walking on the dirt road about three miles from the compound when, for some unknown reason, he’d ventured into the forest to the south of the road. Forty yards into the vegetation was a clearing, and it was there that whoever waited in ambush had jumped the top Warrior. Although the kidnappers had gone to great lengths to eradicate their prints and the signs of a terrific struggle, enough telltale evidence remained to enable Geronimo and the trio of mutations to formulate a plausible scenario.

Hickok simmered at the recollection. Somehow, some way, someone had suckered his pard into the woods and sprung a trap. At least a dozen enemies had been involved, and Blade had put up quite a fight before they’d taken him prisoner. Thankfully, the vermin had wanted Blade alive.

But why? Why? Why?

And who the heck were they?

The notion of Blade being tortured in a dismal dungeon made Hickok’s blood boil. If the Warriors could just find one measly clue establishing the identity of the vermin, he’d lead the rescue mission himself. Maybe it was time to call in help, he speculated. Maybe it was time to notify the rest of the Federation.

One hundred and six years after World War Three, the country once known as the United States of America no longer existed. Barbarism reigned where previously a seemingly cultured civilization had prevailed.

Disparate organized factions ruled limited areas or certain cities, but the majority of the U.S. was now designated as the Outlands, referring to any and all territory outside of any recognized jurisdiction. In the Outlands life was cheap, survival of the fittest the law of the land. In the Outlands a life span of 30 qualified as exceptional.

But not all of the country had degenerated into darkness and savagery.

There were seven organized factions dedicated to preserving the worthwhile vestiges of prewar society, seven factions who had joined in a mutual defense treaty and dubbed themselves the Freedom Federation.

Although considerable distances separated many of them, each faction was pledged to dispatch aid to any other member of the alliance when called upon.

Hickok skirted a stand of trees, mulling over which faction he should contact first.

The least reliable in a pinch were the Moles, the inhabitants of a subterranean complex located 50 miles east of the Home. Less than a week prior to World War Three, a group of people who were certain that conflict was inevitable had fled far into the Red Lake Wildlife Management area, where they’d believed they would be safe, and dug a series of underground tunnels in which to live. Those tunnels had later been expanded into the complex, and the occupants had become known as the Moles.

The Clan and the Moles were the only other Federation members who, like the Family, were based in northern Minnesota.

Far off in Montana the Flathead Indians had reclaimed the former state as their own. Finally free of the white man’s yoke, they clung to their newfound freedom tenaciously. They had perfected the art of living naturally off the land, and many of them were excellent hunters, trackers, and trappers.

Between Minnesota and Montana, in the area now referred to as the Dakota Territory, reigned the Cavalry, an army of superb horsemen who were as indomitable as the wild horses they caught and rode.

Embracing a number of Plains and Rocky Mountain states and a few in the Southwest, the Civilized Zone owed its existence to the United States Government, which had relocated to Denver, Colorado, after the Russian attack on the nation’s capital. The culture and the standard of living in the Civilized Zone came the closest of any Federation member to approximating the prewar lifestyle—although a pale imitation at best—with one possible exception.

The Free State of California. As one of the few states to retain its administrative integrity after the war, and thanks to its abundant resources, California rated as the most technologically progressive in the entire Federation.

So there they were, Hickok thought to himself, ending his mental review of the Family’s allies. Which one should he notify first? Did it even make a difference? Because without a clue as to the head Warrior’s whereabouts, the combined might of the Freedom Federation was powerless to free him.

Blade was on his own.