Citadel Run

Chapter One

“I sense danger,” the Empath announced for the benefit of the three other occupants of the green vehicle.

Immediately, the muscular driver of the van-like transport applied the brakes, bringing the SEAL to an abrupt stop in the middle of the road. His brawny hands deftly twisted the steering wheel, angling the vehicle, enabling him to see in both directions without turning in his seat. His penetrating gray eyes scanned their immediate vicinity as he ran his left hand through his thick dark hair. The driver wore green fatigue pants and a black leather vest, and he was armed with a pair of Bowie knives, one strapped to each hip. “Are you certain, Joshua?” he asked the Empath.

Joshua nodded, his long brown hair bobbing on his narrow shoulders, his brown eyes partially closed as he concentrated his mental powers on the emanations he was receiving. He wore a blue shirt and brown pants, the front of the shirt covered by a large Latin cross he wore suspended from around his neck. “I’m positive, Blade. I’m picking up definite hostility, although I am unable to pinpoint the precise source.”

“Maybe your battery needs recharging, pard.” commented a blond man in buckskins, a lean figure with broad shoulders and a matched set of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers in the holsters of his gunbelt. His right hand stroked his sweeping blond moustache as he looked around. “I don’t see a critter stirrin’ out there.”

“Just this once, Hickok,” groused the fourth occupant of the transport, a stocky Indian with brown eyes and black hair, wearing frayed green pants and a shin, both constructed from an old canvas tent, “I wish you’d use normal English like the rest of us. If I hang around you long enough, I’m likely to start talking like you do.”

“So what’s wrong with the way I talk?” Hickok demanded.

“Oh, nothing, really,” responded his friend. “But I don’t want my wife to think I’m a dimwit.”

“Are you implying, Geronimo, old buddy,” Hickok said, glancing at his closest companion in the entire world, “that I’m a dimwit?”

Geronimo chuckled. “Does a bear crap in the woods?”

“I don’t need this aggravation,” Hickok stated, feigning annoyance. “I get enough of it from my wife, you know.”

Blade gazed fondly at the gunman, grinning. Hickok was seated in a bucket seat directly across from him. Between them was a console, and behind them was another seat running the width of the vehicle. Geronimo sat directly behind Hickok, Joshua behind Blade. The rear section of the SEAL was devoted to storage space.

The SEAL.

Blade stared at the dashboard. Thank the Founder for the transport!

Without it, traveling over the countryside would be extremely precarious, what with the ravaging mutates, the scavengers, and all the other deviates waiting to kill you at a moment’s notice. Kurt Carpenter had been the Founder, and he had wisely foreseen his beloved Family’s need for a superior vehicle, a mode of transportation capable of withstanding the structural stress, the hostile environment, and the harshly altered terrain existing after World War III. Carpenter had spent millions on the design and building of his prototype, incorporating various unique features and special capabilities. His Solar-Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational vehicle was now known by the acronym SEAL. The transport’s body was composed of a nearly indestructible tinted plastic, enabling anyone inside the SEAL to see outside clearly, but preventing someone outside the transport from viewing the interior. Carpenter had known that gas and oil would be difficult to obtain after the collapse of civilization, so he had instructed his scientists and engineers to power the SEAL by solar energy, utilizing two solar panels attached to the roof. The energy was converted and stored in a bank of six revolutionary batteries positioned in a lead-lined case under the vehicle. Four huge tires, constructed of an impervious synthetic, enabled the SEAL to traverse obstacles conventional vehicles could never overcome. After the SEAL had been produced, Carpenter had employed the services of several military specialists, skilled mercenaries whose talents could be purchased for a high enough price, and had had them install certain advanced weapons systems in the prototype.

Kurt Carpenter, Blade thankfully reflected, had seldom missed a trick.

“So what’s the plan?” Hickok asked Blade. “Do we cool our heels here or keep going into the Twin Cities?”

Blade pondered the gunfighter’s query. As the head of Alpha Triad, the Warrior unit comprised of Hickok, Geronimo, and himself, Blade was responsible for making decisions and directing their actions. Indeed, as the chief Warrior for the entire Family, Blade was dedicated to preserving the security of the Home, their thirty-acre survival site in extreme northwestern Minnesota, and insuring the safety of the Family, the descendants of Kurt Carpenter’s initial survivalist group.

“It must be close to noon,” Geronimo noted, gazing out at the late October sky. “Plenty of time for us to contact Zahner and the rest.”

“And don’t forget Bertha,” Joshua added, casting a thoughtful glance at Hickok.

Hickok noticed the look. “Why’d you stare at me when you said that?”

he gruffly inquired.

Joshua shrugged and quickly diverted his attention to the road ahead.

“No reason,” he answered.

“You sure?” Hickok pressed him.

“Leave him alone,” Blade interjected. “He didn’t mean anything. Just because you’re nervous about seeing Bertha again is no…”

“Who’s nervous?” Hickok interrupted. “Bertha will understand. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

“If you ask me,” Geronimo amended, “you’ll be wearing cake all over your face when she’s through with you.”

“I didn’t ask you,” Hickok glumly retorted. He angrily glared at the buildings in front of them. “Blast it! Why’d I agree to come back here? I should be at the Home with my missus, eating her cooking and taking it easy. Why’d I come back?” he inquired of no one in particular.

“Because you had to return,” Blade stated, his mind reviewing the reason for Alpha Triad’s previous trip to the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, a distance of some three hundred and seventy miles from their Home. About two months ago, the Family Leader, a wise, wizened, elderly man by the name of Plato, had sent Alpha Triad and Joshua to the Twin Cities for urgently needed medical and scientific equipment and supplies. Plato had hoped Minneapolis and St. Paul would still be intact, untouched by the scavengers and the looters, at least enough to permit Alpha Triad to locate the items needed in abandoned hospitals or universities. Unfortunately, the Leader’s assumption had proven to be erroneous. Alpha Triad had found the Twin Cities in a virtual shambles.

Most of the buildings had been standing since Minneapolis and St. Paul had been spared a direct hit during World War III, but the structures had been in utter disrepair, with a few exceptions, and the contents of all the buildings had long since been used or destroyed by the four factions fighting for control of the Twin Cities.

Blade sighed. A lot could happen in a century, and in the one hundred years since the Big Blast—as the Family usually referred to the Third World War—the Twin Cities had been ravaged by the constant warfare between the four feuding groups.

“I just saw something move,” Geronimo declared, leaning forward and pointing ahead and to their right. “Behind that overgrown excuse for a hedgerow.”

“Wacks, maybe?” Hickok speculated, retrieving his Navy Arms Henry Carbine from the console.

“Couldn’t tell,” Geronimo replied.

The Wacks! Blade grit his teeth and suppressed a shudder. During his last trip here he’d been captured by the Wacks and had almost lost his life.

In fact, all four of them had nearly bought the farm. He mentally envisioned the layout of the Twin Cities, preparing himself.

The former metropolis was divided up into four different turfs by the four factions. The Wacks were based in southern Minneapolis, and were the descendants of the former residents of the Minnesota Hospital for the Criminally Insane. They were pitiful, demented cannibals, scrounging for any food they could find, attired in rags and armed with everything from bricks to pitchforks. The second group was called the Horns, and they occupied most of St. Paul. They were a strict religious sect, the descendants of a church leader who had stubbornly refused to evacuate his congregation when ordered to do so by the Government at the outset of the war. The third clique was called the Porns by the residents of the Twin Cities, and they controlled western Minneapolis. They were the descendants of a drug and pornography kingpin. The final faction, holding most of northern Minneapolis, was the Nomads, made up of former Horns and Porns, people weary of the incessant fighting and longing for a better life.

“I don’t see the reason for any alarm even though I sense danger,” Joshua was saying, interrupting Blade’s reverie. “We did achieve a truce among the Horns, the Porns, and the Nomads, didn’t we? We promised them we’d lead them out of the Twin Cities and aid them in beginning a new life, possibly in one of the small towns situated near our Home. They all eagerly embraced our proposal. So why should you be so tense?”

“We’re Warriors, Josh,” Hickok answered. “We’re trained to expect the worst.”

“How sad,” Joshua said, frowning. “Surely you must realize how warped your orientation is, speaking from a totally spiritual perspective.”

“You may have a point, Big Words,” Hickok admitted, “but this warped orientation of ours has kept us alive. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

“I have tried it,” Joshua reminded the gunman, “and I didn’t like it.”

“Can we save this philosophical discussion until later?” Geronimo suggested. “I just spotted someone behind that tree over there.” He indicated a large maple to their left.

“Orders, Blade?” Hickok requested.

Blade pondered their course of action, studying the nearby trees and shrubs, searching for signs of movement, for any indication of hostility.

Joshua did have a point; they had arranged a temporary truce among three of the four groups, so it was unlikely they would be attacked by the Porns, the Horns, or the Nomads. The Wacks, the crazies, were another matter. But did they range this far north?

The SEAL was parked in the center of State Highway 47, between 73rd and 71st Avenues, not all that far from where the Nomad camp was located, on the eastern shore of Moore Lake in Fridley.

What to do? Blade asked himself. They couldn’t be more than two miles from the camp. Should they simply continue on their way and disregard whoever was lurking outside? After all, with the transport’s impervious body, they were relatively secure from any assault. He was about to gun the engine when he remembered a pertinent fact; no one in the Twin Cities knew about the SEAL! When Alpha Triad had visited the Twins last, they’d hidden the vehicle as a safety precaution before venturing into the city. So, if they were now in Nomad territory, the ones outside could well be Nomads unaware of the SEAL’s connection to the Family. The Nomads might well believe that the transport was operated by Government troops, the soldiers known as the Watchers.

“You daydreaming?” Hickok goaded Blade.

“He’s probably thinking about Jenny,” Geronimo wryly observed, referring to Blade’s wife. “His hormones are undoubtedly going haywire. After all, he hasn’t seen her for two whole days.”

Blade ignored their barbs and lifted his Auto-Ordnance Model 27 A-1 from the console. The A-1 had been modified by the Family Gunsmiths so it could function on full automatic. Hickok, the Family’s leading expert on firearms, had personally selected the A-1 for Blade. It was a re-creation of a gun known as a Thompson submachine gun, and Hickok had chosen it because the A-1’s awesome firepower would tend to compensate for Blade’s lack of marksmanship. In addition to the A-1 and his Bowies, Blade carried a Dan Wesson .44 Magnum in a shoulder holster under his left arm.

Geronimo was armed with his inevitable tomahawk tucked under the front of his leather belt. An Arminius .357 Magnum was in a holster under his right arm, and he held an FNC Auto Rifle in his hands as he alertly surveyed the surrounding area.

Joshua had been provided with an M-16 confiscated from one of the Government soldiers, but the rifle was lying in the rear section of the SEAL, a testimony to Joshua’s detestation of all weaponry.

“We’ll try and contact them,” Blade said, slowly rolling down his window.

“Keep your head down,” Hickok advised. “If they’re packin’, they’ll blow your head off, pard.”

Blade lowered his chest over the steering wheel and turned to shout out the window. “Hey! We know you’re out there! We come in peace! My name is Blade! If you’re Nomads, let us know! We won’t harm you!” he promised.

“You know,” Hickok mentioned, “the Nomads never saw you, only Josh and me.”

“Hickok is in here with me!” Blade yelled. “Do you remember Hickok?”

“How could anyone forget him?” Geronimo interjected. “Flamboyant personalities like his are hard to forget.”

“Well, thank you, pard.” Hickok beamed.

Geronimo snapped his fingers. “Oh! I’m sorry! I meant to say flamboyant stupidity.”

“There doesn’t seem to be any response to your greeting,” Joshua noted to Blade.

Blade rolled his window up.

Joshua reached for the door handle.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Hickok promptly demanded.

Joshua paused. “To step outside and meet whoever is out there.”

“Stay where you are,” Blade ordered.

“But this is why I’m here,” Joshua protested. “Didn’t Plato send me along as an ambassador of the Family?”

“Yes, he did,” Blade conceded.

“Didn’t Plato want someone who would extend the hand of friendship instead of the barrel of a gun?” Joshua queried.

“Yes,” Blade allowed.

“Someone who wouldn’t be inclined to shoot first, then ask questions later?”

“Yes,” Blade reluctantly acknowledged.

Joshua smiled. “So it’s obvious I’m the one to greet whoever is out there.” He started to open the door.

“Stay where you are,” Blade repeated.

Joshua stopped, glancing at the massive Warrior, his brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. I thought you just said…”

“I admit everything you’ve said is true,” Blade said cutting him off.

“Plato has designated you as the Family’s official good will ambassador…”

“So?”

“So I can’t let you step outside.” Blade motioned for Joshua to sit back in his seat. “Joshua, you’re our ambassador, true, but you’re also one of the six Empaths iti the Family, one of the half-dozen blessed with inexplicable psychic capabilities. You may be the youngest and least experienced of the Empaths, but you’re still able to perceive things a normal person like Hickok, Geronimo, and I can’t.”

“Did I hear right?” Geronimo spoke up. “Did you just call Hickok normal?”

The gunfighter pretended to glare at Geronimo.

“You told us moments ago you sense danger out there,” Blade said to Joshua. “Danger is our province, not yours. You will remain in the SEAL until we ascertain if your psychic impression was accurate.”

“I’ll go,” Hickok immediately volunteered. “I’m tired of sitting in this buggy. I could use a little action.”

“You’d better let me go,” Geronimo stated. “If whoever is out there gets a good look at Hickok’s ugly puss, they’re liable to turn around and run off before we get the chance to talk to them.”

“Funny, funny, funny,” Hickok muttered.

“Hickok goes,” Blade decided.

The gunman glanced at Geronimo and laughed in triumph. “He obviously picked me because I’m the better Warrior!”

“No,” Blade shook his head, winking at Geronimo. “I selected you because Geronimo is the better cook. If anything happened to him, I’d have diarrhea all the way to the Home if I had to eat your cooking.”

Geronimo chuckled and playfully slapped Hickok on the back.

Hickok sighed as he opened his door. “It’s true what they say. Greatness is never appreciated in its own time.”

“Hickok!” Joshua exclaimed, leaning forward.

“What is it, Josh?”

“Why don’t you leave the rifle here?” Joshua recommended. “A show of arms might frighten whoever is out there. It could intimidate them into taking violent action.”

Hickok looked at Blade.

“It’s up to you,” Blade told him. “I’d suggest you take it, though.”

Hickok noted the hurt expression on Joshua’s face. He slowly placed the Henry on his seat. “Geronimo must be right,” he said. “I must be stupid.”

He stared at Joshua. “I’ll do it, pard, for you. Just don’t ever tell any of the other Warriors back at the Home. They’ll think I’ve gone off the deep end.”

Joshua grinned, delighted at this unexpected turn of events. “Thank you, dear brother! Now what about your Pythons too?”

Hickok locked his blue eyes on Joshua’s brown. “Remind me, Josh, that one of these days we’ve got to sit down and have a real loooooong talk about the realities of life.”

“Watch it out there,” Blade said.

Hickok nodded and slid from the SEAL, closing the door behind him, his back to the transport, facing the nearest vegetation and scanning for the slightest hint of a threat.

Nothing.

Just the trees and the bushes, the leaves waving in the wind.

Hickok nonchalantly hooked his thumbs under his gunbelt and strolled away from the SEAL. Maybe Joshua was right. Maybe, if they showed they were friendly, whoever was out here would reciprocate.

What could it hurt to try?

A twig snapped behind a large bush about twenty feet away, to his right.

Whoever was out here wasn’t being too secretive about it.

Hickok grinned. Just what he liked. A klutzy ambusher!

There was a shuffling sound from behind a tree off to his left.

Hickok paused. He was entertaining second thoughts about this bright idea of Joshua’s.

Was someone out there whispering?

Hickok didn’t like the setup one bit, but he decided to give Joshua the benefit of the doubt.

More whispering.

“Howdy!” Hickok cheerfully called out. “My handle is Hickok! We’re here on a peaceful mission!”

There was a brief silence, then it sounded like dozens of people were whispering all at once.

Hickok cautiously moved toward the large bush. What the blazes were they doing? Having a conference?

A tall man suddenly stepped from behind an oak. He held a rifle in his hands, the barrel pointed at the ground.

Hickok tensed, resisting an impulse to draw his Colts.

Not now!

Give them the benefit of the doubt.

The stranger wore a tattered, dirty blue shirt and torn, faded jeans. He was grinning, revealing a gap where two of his upper front teeth had once been.

Well, look at this! Hickok returned the smile, amazed. Joshua was on the right track, after all! If you showed a little friendliness, you were bound to make friends.

The man took several tentative steps in Hickok’s direction.

“Howdy!” Hickok said again. “I’m Hickok. I’m pleased to meet you.”

Still grinning, the man nodded his head.

“Do you understand me?” Hickok asked.

The stranger continued to nod.

Yes, sir! Hickok still couldn’t believe it. Making friends was a piece of cake!

The tall man was now only ten feet from the Warrior, continuing to nod his head.

What was with this bozo? Did he have a nervous condition, or something?

“I’m Hickok,” the gunman repeated.

“That’s pretty,” the man finally spoke.

Pretty?

“What can I do for you?” Hickok inquired. “What is it you want?”

The man stopped and raised his rifle. “To eat you, dummy!” He suddenly turned his head and shouted at the top of his lungs: “Kill him! Kill meat now!”

Without warning, screeching and screaming, over two dozen men and women burst from cover, charging toward the man in buckskins.