Dallas Run

Chapter Fifteen

“What about my weapons?”

“You heard me tell Brother Ezekiel to collect them.”

“Yeah. But will he bring them to wherever you’re taking me?” Blade inquired.

Aaron glanced at the giant on the horse beside his. “You seem rather attached to that machine gun and those knives.”

“I’m fond of the knives,” Blade conceded. “I’ve owned them for more years than I care to remember, and they’ve saved my life.”

“They won’t save you now.”

Blade stared at the tall man. “So what about them?”

“Yes, Ezekiel will bring them to the Temple.”

“Is the Temple your church?” Blade asked.

“The Lawgiver selected the site for our Temple of worship, for the center of our religious activities,” Aaron said. “Legend has it that the stadium was used for a secular purpose before the war.”

“Your Temple is a stadium?”

Aaron nodded. “You’ll see for yourself shortly.”

Blade lapsed into a moody silence, gazing idly at the skyscrapers and other imposing structures as they rode to the southeast. The buildings in the central section of the metropolis were in better condition than those he’d seen in most major cities. He spied an immense sign on the roof of an edifice to the south and regarded it quizzically.

The sign depicted two men engaged in a peculiar form of combat or contest. Both wore strange uniforms imprinted with large numbers on their shirts or jerseys. Both wore bizarre spiked shoes. And both wore weird helmets covering their heads from their foreheads to their shoulders. On the front of each helmet, over the mouth of each man, was a handle for carrying the headpiece. The man on the left carried a bizarre oval ball tucked under his arm. In bold letters above both men were puzzling words: GO COWBOYS!

Blade racked his brain for an explanation of the sign. He knew about cowboys because Hickok was always reading books from the Family library on the Wild West. Cowboys wore Stetsons, sombreros, or other varieties of wide-brimmed hats, not helmets. And real cowboys had packed revolvers, not carried balls. He deduced the sign must relate to a type of sport, and he vaguely recalled skimming a book on American sports when he was much younger. It contained photographs of men in similar attire. What had the game been called? Tennis, wasn’t it?

“There’s the Temple,” Aaron declared.

The Warrior shifted his gaze to the tremendous architectural marvel they were approaching. The sheer size and scope dwarfed the nearby buildings into insignificance. Curiously, there didn’t appear to be any windows in the towering walls. The shape, from his vantage point, seemed to be circular.

“One day the Chosen will find the Temple,” Aaron predicted.

“In a million years, maybe,” Blade quipped.

“Much sooner than that,” Aaron said cryptically.

“Not unless you breed like rabbits,” Blade responded.

“I’m willing,” Marta interjected, and snickered.

“One day the Chosen will fill the Temple,” Aaron predicted.

“The Lawgiver wouldn’t condemn me.”

“Don’t be so certain. He has overlooked your erratic behavior in the past because you were born pure. If you were a convert, he would have consigned you to face Destiny.”

Marta laughed lightly. “I’m not worried, Brother Aaron. I’m one of the Lawgiver’s favorites.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Aaron said testily, and kneed his mount ahead of Victor.

“The Lawgiver can have you killed because of your behavior?” Blade asked.

“The Lawgiver has the power of life and death over the flock,” Marta explained. “If one of the Chosen should become tainted by the impure, then their name will be stricken from the scroll of glory.”

“You’ve lost me. Who are the impure?”

“You are one of the impure.”

“Me?”

“And everyone who doesn’t have the Mark.”

Blade pondered her information for a moment, then looked at the green splotches on her back. “Do you mean the green marks?”

“Yeah. The Mark of the Chosen.”

“Everyone who has the green marks is one of the Chosen?”

“Of course. And when the earth is cleansed, only the Chosen will remain,” Marta said.

“Does the Lawgiver intend to cleanse the whole planet of the impure?”

Marta nodded. “Starting with the Civilized Zone.”

“So the attacks on the sentry posts must tie in with the Lawgiver’s grandiose plan,” Blade commented.

Marta didn’t respond.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Blade queried.

“What?”

“Why do you run around without any clothes on?”

“The Lawgiver teaches us to be proud that we bear the Mark of the Chosen. If we wore clothing, we would cover the sign of our purity, and we should always display our purity before our Maker.”

“You’re losing me again.”

She sighed and glanced back at him. “Be patient. The Lawgiver will explain everything to you.”

“I can hardly wait,” Blade muttered dryly.

They neared the stadium, crossing a wide boulevard and riding onto a vast parking lot. A half dozen of the Chosen emerged from doors at ground level and came toward the mounted party.

“Hello, Brother Aaron!” called out a muscular man carrying a Winchester.

“Greetings, Brother Judas,” Aaron replied.

The two groups met in the middle of the parking lot, and the muscular man studied the Warrior.

“The Lawgiver will be pleased.”

“I live to serve,” Aaron said. “Where are you headed?”

“Out on patrol.”

“Brother Ezekiel is in need of assistance in the northwest sector, at the Donogal Office Building.”

“I know where it’s at. We’ll head right there,” Judas said.

“May the Maker guide all your footsteps,” Aaron stated.

Judas’s group strode off.

Blade watched them depart as Marta urged Victor forward. “He mentioned the Maker. Was he referring to our spirit Maker?”

“None other.”

“Are the Chosen religious?”

“What a stupid question. Of course.”

“You’re religious, and yet you traipse around without any clothes on,” Blade remarked.

“The Maker created our skin. Why should we be ashamed of nudity? The Lawgiver says that nudity is purity, and purity is the Mark,” Marta said.

“How convenient.”

“You shouldn’t make fun of the Lawgiver,” Marta mentioned. “You’ll live longer.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Blade said.

Aaron signaled for a halt when his party came within five yards of the doors. “Dismount.”

“I’ll stay and watch over the horses,” Blade offered.

Grinning, Aaron shook his head. “Thanks just the same. Brother Micah will watch over our horses.”

“Are you positive you can trust him?”

“Inside,” Aaron instructed, nodding at the doors.

The Warrior obeyed, pausing within to survey a drab corridor. He felt a hard object jab him in the small of the back, and he gazed over his right shoulder to find the barrel of Aaron’s Marlin .30-30 an inch from his spine.

“Just so you don’t get any ideas,” the tall man said.

“You don’t trust me?” Blade asked, feigning a degree of hurt in his tone.

“As far as I can throw you,” Aaron replied, and gestured to proceed.

Escorted by the nine Chosen, Blade followed the passage until they reached a junction. Aaron directed him to take the left branch, and a minute later they took a right at another fork. After they made five subsequent turns, Blade began to wonder if the tall man was deliberately trying to confuse him. Finally they went straight for 30 yards, along a wide corridor that inclined slightly upward, and stepped out into the sunlight.

Blade blinked, adjusting his eyes, and when he stared at the scene before him, his brow knit in consternation.

“Welcome to the Temple,” Aaron commented.

This was a temple?

Blade shook his head in amazement.

He stood at one end of a gargantuan stadium. Above and around him rose tier after tier of narrow wooden seats, an interminable number, ascending to the very heavens. The center of the stadium consisted of a green field approximately one hundred yards in length. At the near and far edges of this field reared a pair of outlandish metal uprights, with two tall vertical posts connected by a horizontal post. He tried to conceive of the purpose of the uprights, and speculated they might have been used in some sort of climbing contest.

“Keep walking,” Aaron said.

Blade moved toward the field, scrutinizing the dozens of Chosen engaged in various activities, estimating over 80 men and women were congregated on the field. To the north was a group of about 20 listening to a husky man read from a book. On the south side were a few dozen mingling and conversing. In the middle of the field stood four rows of the Chosen, each person holding a brown book at chest height. In front of them stood an elderly man whose shoulder-length white hair and flowing white beard set him apart from everyone else. The elderly man wore a blue loincloth. His back was to the Warrior.

What were they doing? Blade wondered.

The elderly man raised his right hand, and suddenly the men and women in the four rows began singing a hymn, their voices blending in practiced harmony.

Blade glanced at Aaron. “What—?”

“Our choir,” Aaron responded with a smile.

“You have your own choir?” Blade repeated, stunned by the unexpected discovery.

“Why are you so surprised? Did you think we’re as barbaric as the countless scavengers who continually pass through our city?” Aaron queried.

“I had no idea,” Blade said lamely.

Aaron snorted and gestured at the field. “Our beginnings are humble, but eventually we shall establish a culture greater than any this country has ever seen.”

“How?”

“Ask the Lawgiver.”

“Where is he?” Blade inquired.

“Allow me to introduce you,” Aaron said, taking the lead, crossing the field toward the choir.

For one of the few times in his life, Blade felt completely baffled. The Chosen gave him the impression they were genuinely religious, but how could their supposedly spiritual nature be reconciled with the attacks on the sentry posts? And what was the connection between their religious fervor and the green splotches? Of even more critical importance was their plan to cleanse the world of the impure. The Chosen were a moral jigsaw puzzle with crucial pieces missing.

Aaron halted a few yards from the elderly man as the choir concluded the hymn. “Lawgiver, I ask your humble pardon for this intrusion.”

The elderly man turned.

Blade couldn’t stop himself from doing a double take. Like the rest of the Chosen, the Lawgiver’s body was covered with the green splotches.

Unlike the others, the elderly man’s face was a shiny shade of green from his forehead to his chin. And what a face! The visage resembled a predatory bird of prey, an eagle or a hawk. A great, hooked nose divided a perpetually puckered pair of thin, cruel lips and a pair of eerie, dazzling green eyes. Wrinkles creased the Lawgiver’s forehead and cheeks, suggesting an age well beyond the normal life expectancy.

“I’ve brought a prisoner,” Aaron announced.

“So I see, Brother Aaron,” the Lawgiver responded, his voice low and alluring.

“He put up quite a fight,” Aaron reported.

“I can imagine,” the Lawgiver said, raking the Warrior from head to toe with a penetrating gaze. “Goliath was undoubtedly of a similar stature, yet David slew him with a stone.”

“We’re conducting a search for this man’s companions,” Aaron elaborated. “They should be in custody by nightfall.”

“Excellent,” the Lawgiver remarked, and locked his uncanny eyes on the Warrior. “What is your name?”

“Blade.”

“An unusual choice of names.”

“I’ve always been fond of butter knives,” Blade said. He saw the Lawgiver nod at Aaron, and before he could fathom its meaning, while his attention rested on the elderly leader of the Chosen, Aaron hauled off and rammed the butt of the Marlin into his abdomen. The exquisite pain doubled him over, and he clutched at his stomach.

“You must be taught to respect your spiritual betters,” the Lawgiver stated in a condescending tone. “You will not speak unless I ask you a direct question, and any sarcasm will be dealt with severely. Is that understood?”

Blade nodded, straightening slowly, resisting an urge to knock Aaron senseless.

“I can’t hear you, Blade,” the Lawgiver.

“I understand,” Blade declared resentfully.

“Good. Now let’s proceed with the interrogation. Why are you in Dallas?”

The Warrior hesitated, debating whether to answer. If he kept quiet he’d undoubtedly receive a beating or be subjected to torture, and although he believed he could handle anything the Chosen dished out, the information was too inconsequential to entail making such a sacrifice. On the other hand, he might be able to elicit important intelligence if he went along with them. “Your people attacked two sentry posts on the border of the Civilized Zone,” he said.

“And you were sent to investigate.”

Blade nodded.

“Are you a soldier?” the Lawgiver inquired.

“No,” Blade said, and knew he’d made a mistake when he saw a puzzled expression come over those unnatural green features.

“Why would a civilian be sent to investigate a military matter? Are you lying to me about your military status?”

“I’m a mercenary,” Blade lied.

“But why would they send mercenaries? You see, I know there were five uniformed soldiers, plus yourself and two others, who entered our territory. You were kept under surveillance until you went too near the lair of the lizards. Why would they send mercenaries with their troops?”

Blade studied the leader of the Chosen, thinking fast. The man might be old, but his mind was as sharp as the proverbial razor. The Lawgiver had noticed an incongruous fact he deemed crucial, and he was determined to learn the truth. “They sent mercenaries because the brass couldn’t get all the volunteers they wanted.”

“Why not?”

“No one wanted to risk catching the plague.”

The Lawgiver considered the answer for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, they would be afraid of the plague, wouldn’t they?” he replied, and laughed.

Aaron and the others joined in the mirth.

Blade decided to take advantage of their temporary good humor and test how far he could push without retaliation. “May I ask you a question?” he ventured, putting an urgency in his tone.

Instantly the Lawgiver ceased laughing and his countenance hardened.

“Didn’t you hear me a minute ago?”

“Yes. But there’s something I’ve got to know,” Blade said hastily. “Will I break out in those green marks too? Will I wind up looking like you?” He tensed, hoping he sounded appropriately fearful, expecting another rifle butt in the gut.

Instead, the Lawgiver and his followers enjoyed another hearty laugh.

“I will, won’t I?” Blade asked timidly.

“Whether you shall have the singular honor of bearing the Mark of the Chosen is in my hands,” the Lawgiver said. “Your fate depends on your behavior.” He paused. “I can understand your anxiety, and since I have a few hours until tonight’s service, I will graciously answer all of your questions.”

“Thank you,” Blade responded, shamming a subservient attitude. “I have so many, I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“I do,” the Lawgiver said, glancing at Aaron. “Is my car ready?”

“Yes, Lawgiver.”

“Fine. Then we will conduct our guest on a little tour.”

“A tour?” Blade repeated.

“Yes. You have gone to so much trouble to uncover the truth of our existence. Ask and you shall receive, says Scripture. It is only fitting that we share our secrets before you meet your Destiny.”