Dallas Run

Chapter One

Nelson hated border-guard duty.

He squinted up at the bright April sun, mentally cursing the Civilized Zone Army. While he was at it, he also cursed his immediate superior officer, Lieutenant Garber, and the commander of the armed forces, General Reese. For good measure he added in President Toland, the heat wave, and life in general.

Six more months, he told himself.

Six more months and he could kiss the damn Army goodbye! His two-year enlistment would be up and he could return to civilian life. He’d be free again! Free to let his hair grow if he wanted, free to wear whatever clothing he liked, free to stay out as late as he desired or to sleep in until noon without having an officer or a noncom standing over his bunk and bellowing for him to get his lazy butt out of the sack.

Oh, sweet freedom!

Nelson smiled at the thought of his honorable discharge, and shifted his attention to the stark, oddly ominous structures silhouetted against the southern horizon. The skyscrapers of Dallas, even at a distance of 15 miles, gave him the willies. He recalled all the horror stories he’d heard about the savagery reigning in the former metropolis, about the scavengers and the gangs and the mutations, and he wondered why anyone in their right mind would choose to live there, to exist in such squalor and filth amidst such danger. Living in Dallas didn’t make any sense, not when the Civilized Zone border was so close.

He gripped the strap of the M-16 slung over his left shoulder with his left hand and rested his right on the top rail of the gate blocking off Highway 289. Sweat beaded his brow under his helmet and caked his sides under his green fatigue shirt. He longed for a cool drink or a cold bath. In four hours, at six P.M., he would be off duty, and he could hardly wait to strip off his uncomfortable uniform and sink into a tub of icy water.

“Daydreaming about Cindy, Art?”

Nelson started at the sound of the familiar voice and pivoted to his left to find Sergeant Whitney emerging from the white hut at the side of the road. “No,” he blurted out.

“What’s with you?” Sergeant Whitney asked, and grinned. “Why are you so jumpy?”

Nelson shrugged. “Didn’t realize I was, Bob.”

“I could understand a case of nerves if we were pulling the night shift,” Whitney mentioned, stretching and staring at the far-off skyscrapers. “But it’s the middle of the afternoon, for crying out loud.”

“I guess pulling sentry duty at this post gives me the creeps,” Nelson said.

“Me too,” Sergeant Whitney admitted. “Those screams an hour ago were some of the loudest I’ve heard. It sounded like some poor woman was being torn limb from limb.”

Nelson remembered and shuddered. Screams and wails from the direction of the decrepit, crumbling city were not uncommon, but during the past week all of the men pulling shifts at Sentry Post 17 had noticed an increase in the number of such cries, as if an unidentified terror stalked the inhabitants and was slaying them one by one. “Potts told me that on his shift last night he heard someone screeching for nearly an hour.”

“You can’t believe Potts. You know how that turkey likes to exaggerate,” Sergeant Whitney said.

“Yeah,” Nelson agreed, glad he was on duty with a reliable, disciplined man like Bob Whitney. The two had known one another for seven months, ever since Nelson had been assigned to the Southern Perimeter Command, the unit responsible for manning all of the sentry posts along the southern border of the Civilized Zone. Despite their difference in rank and career status, with Whitney planning to stay in the Army for 20 years and hoping to eventually become an officer, they had developed a mutually respectful friendship. Nelson had taken his sweetheart, Cindy Hampton, over to the Whitneys on several occasions.

“One of these days General Reese will get his wish and be allowed to take a battalion into Dallas to clean out the scavengers and the other grungy riffraff,” Sergeant Whitney remarked.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t already,” Nelson responded.

“General Reese can’t make a move into the Outlands without President Toland’s permission, and Toland is a politician.”

“So?”

Whitney made a snorting noise. “You must not know much about politics. Politicians, Art, always take the path of least resistance. When faced with a crucial problem, they’d rather cower in a corner than take the bold stand necessary to solve the problem.”

“I still don’t understand,” Nelson said.

“Permit me to educate you,” Sergeant Whitney said, and pointed toward the city. “Out there lies the Outlands. Any and all territory lying outside of the boundaries of the organized factions is considered part of the Outlands.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Okay, smartass. There are those who advocate assembling a huge force composed of a regiment from the Civilized Zone and elements from each of the other six factions in the Freedom Federation. They want this super detachment to venture into the Outlands and eliminate the raiders, the mutants, the gangs, and anyone or anything else that stands in the way of progress.”

“Sounds like a great idea to me,” Nelson commented.

“There are many people who don’t agree,” Whitney noted. “They believe our armed forces are overextended as it is, what with maintaining the peace and protecting our borders. Any large-scale excursion into the Outlands might leave us open to attack from one of our enemies. There’s also the issue of governmental control. Some people don’t think the Civilized Zone, or any other Federation faction, has the right to annex additional land without the consent of the inhabitants of the Outlands.

These people even have a motto.” He paused. “Government by the people, not over the people.’”

“So you’re saying that President Toland won’t authorize a military strike into Dallas or any other part of the Outlands because a lot of voters would be upset with him?” Nelson queried.

“Give the man a gold star,” Sergeant Whitney quipped.

Nelson pondered the implications for a moment. “But who knows what’s going on out there? For all we know, there could be someone in the Outlands organizing an army to invade us.”

“Could happen,” Whitney acknowledged.

“What will it take to bring President Toland to his senses?” Nelson wondered.

“A brain transplant.”

They both started laughing, but the laughter died abruptly seconds later when a high-pitched shriek rent the sluggish air, arising from a cluster of dilapidated buildings less than 200 yards from the sentry post, on the right side of Highway 289.

“What the hell!” Nelson exclaimed, unslinging his M-16.

Sergeant Whitney placed his right hand on the butt of the Browning semiautomatic strapped to his right hip. “Damn! I’ve never heard one that close before.”

“Do we check it out?”

“You know better,” Sergeant Whitney replied. “We stay put.”

Nelson listened with bated breath, the short hairs at the nape of his neck tingling. Between the gate and the buildings stretched a field of brush and scrub trees in which nothing moved. On the left side of the roadway an expanse of field extended for over 500 yards before ending at a row of abandoned frame homes, many of which were partly collapsed. “I don’t see anything.”

“Keep your eyes peeled,” Sergeant Whitney directed. “I’m going to call this in.” He turned and entered the sentry hut.

A drop of sweat trickled onto Nelson’s left eyelid, and he mopped at his brow with the back of his left hand, feeling annoyed at himself for his excessive nervousness. Why was he so antsy? He’d pulled guard duty more times than he could count, and he’d never felt so apprehensive before. Was his mind playing tricks on him, or was it trying to warn him of impending peril? He took a few deep breaths to steady himself.

Another shriek sounded, louder than the previous cry.

Nelson glanced at the hut and saw Sergeant Whitney using the radio to contact Lieutenant Garber. He licked his lips and scanned the field on the right, and a flicker of movement approximately a hundred yards from the gate drew his attention. His brown eyes narrowed and he leaned forward.

The bushes in a thicket were shaking violently.

He raised the M-16 to his shoulder and sighted on the center of the thicket, hoping the cause of the movement was just a mutation of some kind, a two-headed coyote or a six-legged skunk or some other form of genetically warped animal. In the 106 years since World War Three, mutations had proliferated. Encountering genetic deviations was an ordinary occurrence. The ecological chain had been severely disrupted by the massive amounts of radiation and chemical-warfare toxins unleashed during the holocaust, and physical deformities were commonplace in all wildlife. According to an article he’d read in the Army News, the experts believed that embryonic development was no longer predictable. So if a four-eyed rabbit or a feral dog with two tails should pop out of that thicket, he wouldn’t be surprised.

The bushes ceased shaking.

Nelson breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed, lowering the M-16 to his waist. How could he allow himself to become so worked up over a lousy moving bush? He grinned at his stupidity, and the grin froze on his face when a figure, doubled over at the waist and racing too fast for details to register, darted from the thicket into a patch of tall weeds. Shocked disbelief rooted him to the spot for all of three seconds, and then Nelson dashed toward the hut. “Sarge! Sarge!”

Whitney appeared in the doorway, an M-16 in his right hand. “Calm down, Art. What is it?”

“I saw someone,” Nelson reported, and pointed at the thicket.

“Only one?” Sergeant Whitney asked, walking to the gate and peering at the field.

“Yeah.”

“Male or female?”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“Were they armed?”

“I couldn’t tell,” Nelson said, embarrassed by his lack of perception. “I caught a glimpse of someone running into the weeds, but I couldn’t distinguish any features.”

They waited in an expectant silence for over a minute, but nothing else happened.

“I know I saw someone,” Nelson insisted.

“And I believe you,” Whitney assured him.

“What did the lieutenant say?”

“I didn’t speak to him,” Sergeant Whitney answered. “Dutch told me that Lieutenant Garber is at Sentry Post 19. There was an incident there two hours ago.”

“What kind of incident?”

“Dutch wouldn’t tell me. But he’s relaying our message to the lieutenant.”

Nelson pursed his lips, troubled by the news. Dutch Miller was the Communications man on duty at headquarters, and Dutch would never withhold information unless under direct orders, which meant the top brass had clamped a lid on whatever had transpired at Sentry Post 19.

“Listen,” Sergeant Whitney said. “Do you hear that?”

“What?” Nelson responded, tilting his head. “I don’t—” he began, and then he heard the sound too. A peculiar low intonation coming from far to the south. “What is it?”

“Chanting, I think. Dozens of people.”

“Who the hell would be chanting out there?”

“Beats me,” Sergeant Whitney said with a shrug. “But I don’t like it one bit.”

“Me neither,” Nelson concurred. The chanting had a droning, rhythmic quality, rising and falling in an eerie cadence, the individual words, if there were any, indistinguishable.

“I’m calling for reinforcements,” Sergeant Whitney announced, and went to take a step, but he glanced down the road and did a double take.

“Do you see what I see?”

Nelson looked, and for a moment doubted his own vision.

A white horse and rider were approaching the sentry post at a sedate pace. One instant the highway had been empty, and the next they were in the middle of the road, as if they had materialized out of thin air, near the structures about 200 yards away.

“Where’d they come from?” Nelson asked.

“Maybe they came from behind those buildings and we didn’t notice,” Sergeant Whitney conjectured.

Nelson squinted, discerning dark, flowing, shoulder-length hair on the rider. “It’s a woman!”

“Yep.”

“What’s a woman doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“How should I know?”

“Where’d she get a white horse?” Nelson asked in astonishment.

“What I’d like to know,” Whitney said, “is where are her clothes?”

Nelson studied the rider, his eyes widening in amazement as he realized Whitney spoke the truth. The woman appeared to be naked! Except for the hair falling over her breasts, she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.

“This can’t be happening. I must be dreaming.”

“Cover her,” Sergeant Whitney instructed, resting the barrel of his M-16 on the top rail.

“Do you want me to frisk her when she arrives?” Nelson asked hopefully.

“Wait until I tell Cindy on you,” Whitney joked.

The woman rode ever closer, the clopping of the horse’s hoofs growing louder and louder. Her right hand held the reins, her left lay on her left thigh.

“Who are you?” Sergeant Whitney called out when the woman was 50 yards off. “What do you want?”

She did not reply.

Sergeant Whitney wagged the M-16. “Didn’t you hear me? What’s your name?”

Still she came on without responding.

“Do you want me to shoot her?” Nelson offered in jest. “She might be hiding a hand grenade in her hair.” He chuckled at his own joke and stared at the woman. At a range of 40 yards he could see a smile on her rather lovely features. He also saw strange greenish dots on her body, dots that grew in size with each passing yard until, at 75 feet, the dots had blossomed into distinct green splotches marking her skin from her chin to her feet.

Sergeant Whitney had also seen them. “Halt!” he shouted. “Stop where you are!”

But again the woman refused to acknowledge the noncom.

“I’m warning you!” Whitney yelled, elevating the M-16. “This is an official entry point into the Civilized Zone. No one enters without permission. Stop or I’ll shoot.”

The naked woman continued to ride toward them.

“Please! Halt!” Whitney commanded, and aimed at her forehead. “I’ll count to three, and then I’ll fire.”

Nelson watched her move forward, flabbergasted by her audacity.

“One!” Sergeant Whitney declared.

She smiled even more broadly.

“Two!”

The woman was only 20 yards from the gate when she unexpectedly reined in. “Hello,” she greeted them in a pleasant, melodious voice. “Don’t shoot me.”

Sergeant Whitney slowly lowered his M-16. “Who are you?”

“My name is Marta,” the woman said. She leaned down to pat her mount on the neck, exposing her large breasts to their view. “This is Victor.”

“I’m Sergeant Whitney of the Civilized Zone Army,” the noncom informed her, and motioned at Nelson. “This is Private Nelson. I’m afraid we can’t allow you to proceed any further north. We’ll have to notify our superior officer of your presence. You can’t enter the Civilized Zone unless Lieutenant Garber personally approves your admittance and you pass your physical.” He paused and eyed her quizzically. “You do want to enter, don’t you?”

“We plan to, yes,” Marta said, straightening.

“Then I must make a call,” Whitney said. “But first, would you mind telling me why you’re not wearing any clothes?”

The woman laughed lightly and ran her left hand through her long hair.

“It’s too hot for clothes, don’t you think?”

“It’s hot,” Sergeant Whitney agreed, “but most folks don’t strip off all their clothing just because it gets hot.”

“Neither do I.”

Whitney’s brown eyes narrowed. “But you said it’s too hot to be wearing clothes, and you’re naked.”

Marta beamed at the noncom and winked. “Noticed, huh?” She giggled.

“Men always notice.”

“Why did you take off your clothing?” Sergeant Whitney asked.

“I didn’t,” Marta replied.

“But you’re not wearing any.”

“I never do.”

Sergeant Whitney and Nelson exchanged puzzled expressions.

“Pardon me, miss, but I don’t quite understand,” Whitney remarked.

“Do you mean you always go around nude?”

“Nudity is purity, and purity is the Mark.”

“What mark?” Whitney asked.

“The Mark of the Chosen.”

Nelson listened to the exchange in bewilderment. The woman’s bizarre behavior inclined him to the opinion she was off her rocker. From the tales he’d heard, he knew the Outlands teemed with wackos, unfortunate crazies whose dementia could be attributed to their parents ingesting foodstuffs tainted by the radioactive and chemical poisons polluting the environment. He looked at Whitney and rolled his eyes.

“Well, Marta, I’ll have to insist that you remain where you are while I contact the lieutenant,” the noncom told her.

“Can I come a little closer?” Marta requested, and nudged the white horse with her ankles before Whitney could answer.

“That’s close enough.”

“I won’t bite,” Marta said, and grinned impishly, advancing nearer, to within 15 yards.

“Stop!” Sergeant Whitney barked.

She reined up. “Okay. Okay. Don’t lay an egg. I can’t believe hunks like you two are scared of little old me.”

“We can’t take any chances,” Sergeant Whitney said. “There’s a possibility you’re infected with a disease.”

“I am not,” Marta responded indignantly.

“Then what are those green spots all over you?”

Marta touched one of the inch-wide irregular splotches on her left thigh. “Do you mean these?”

“What are they?”

She traced the outline of the splotch with her finger. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Miss?”

“Such exquisite design. The Maker is magnificent.”

Sergeant Whitney glanced at his companion. “She needs a psychiatrist,” he whispered, then faced the woman and raised his voice.

“When did you break out in those green spots?”

Marta looked up in surprise. “These? I’ve had these all of my life.”

“You were born with them?” Sergeant Whitney inquired.

“Yes. Some of the Chosen are born with the Mark, some are converted.”

“I’m sure they are,” Whitney said. “Watch her,” he ordered Nelson, and walked into the sentry hut.

“What’s your name again?” Marta asked the private.

“Nelson. Art Nelson.”

“Were you born with the Mark?”

“I wasn’t born with green spots on my body,” Nelson responded.

“None whatsoever?”

“None,” Nelson verified.

“How sad,” Marta declared and frowned. “But then we can’t be blamed, can we?”

“Blamed for what?” Nelson asked.

“For the outworking of the Maker’s will.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“We follow the Lawgiver, and the Lawgiver has decreed the cleansing of the Earth.”

Nelson repressed an impulse to cackle. Her nonsensical talk indicated how severely unbalanced her mind must be. He felt a degree of sympathy for the woman and hoped the doctors would be able to assist her.

“Where are you from?” Marta asked him.

“I was born and raised in Denver,” Nelson disclosed.

“Where’s Denver?”

“North of here about seven hundred and eighty miles.”

“Do any of the Chosen dwell in Denver?”

“Who are the Chosen?” Nelson rejoined.

“You have ears, but you don’t hear,” Marta said, and sighed. “When the final roll call is made, where will you be?”

Nelson didn’t know what to say, so he held his tongue.

“When the final roll call is made, I’ll be counted on the side of righteousness and glory,” Marta said.

“That’s nice,” Nelson replied politely.

“I have served the Lawgiver faithfully for all my years,” Marta went on.

“My name will be entered on the scroll of glory.”

“I hope it’s spelled correctly,” Nelson quipped, looking at the hut. He saw Whitney seated at a table. The noncom’s back was to the sole window, and on the table next to his left arm sat the radio. A headset perched on the sergeant’s head. His shoulders were slumped, as if he was dejected over something.

“I hope you’ll forgive us for our deception,” Maria said.

“Deception?” Nelson repeated absently, still gazing at Sergeant Whitney, mystified because his friend wasn’t moving. Her words abruptly sank in, and he looked up at the woman, befuddled by her comments. “Us? Who are you talking about?”

“Why, my brothers and sisters, of course,” Marta said, smiling sweetly and motioning at the field on the right side of Highway 289.

Dread engulfing him, Nelson pivoted toward the field, his confounded expression transforming into a petrified one at the sight of the grim, unnatural swarm closing on Sentry Post 17. Goose bumps erupted all over his flesh, and he spun toward the hut. “Sarge!” he shouted, taking a stride, only to see two more appear in the doorway as Whitney toppled from the chair.

Marta laughed.

Private Art Nelson raised his M-16, squeezed the trigger, and screamed in abject terror.