Dallas Run

Chapter Four

Blade extended his right hand as he advanced. “Hello, President Toland,” he greeted the leader of the Civilized Zone.

The man in the blue suit took the Warrior’s hand and shook it vigorously. “It’s nice to see you again, Blade. I only wish the circumstances were different. We need to find a place to talk in private.”

“Glad to see you, Blade,” chimed in the Civilized Zone officer, nodding at the giant.

“General Reese,” Blade said, and smiled at the other officer, the captain in the California Air Force. “Captain Laslo. We weren’t expecting you for about three more weeks.”

The pilot nodded at the VTOL. “Have wings, will travel. That’s my motto.”

Blade twisted and gestured at his companions. “All of you know Hickok and Geronimo.”

More greetings were exchanged, and then the elderly man cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen, we should adjourn to E Block. I’m sure we can find a quiet corner in the library in which to hold our discussion.”

“Whatever you say, Plato,” President Toland responded. “Lead the way.”

Plato nodded and led off through the crowd toward the drawbridge, and the rest fell in to his rear, except for Blade. The giant strolled on Plato’s right, and Plato became aware that the Warrior was studying him intently. “Do I have food crumbs in my beard?”

“No,” Blade said, and chuckled. “Nadine told me yesterday that you haven’t been feeling too well lately.”

“That wife of mine is worse than a mother hen,” Plato groused. “A simple touch of the flu has escalated into a case of the bubonic plague. I’m physically fit, thank you. The Healers administered an herbal remedy that was remarkably efficacious.”

President Toland, who was following directly behind Plato, overheard their banter. “Can these Healers of yours cure many diseases?”

“They are extremely skilled at treating all manner of ailments,” Plato answered in his soft voice. “They adhere to the naturopathic method of treating illness as opposed to the allopathic, the homeopathic, or any of the other methods commonly employed before World War Three.”

“I’m not a doctor. What’s the difference?” President Toland inquired.

“There are major differences between the various methods,” Plato elaborated. “The Healers could explain them much better than I can, although there is an example that might be instructive. Prior to the war, the physicians in many countries treated disease by injecting vaccines consisting of dead bacteria or virus particles into the patient in the hopes of inducing the patient’s body to produce antibodies to fight the disease. Naturopathy, by contrast, uses herbs and food and heat and exercise to promote healing.”

“And this naturopathic business works?” President Toland inquired, his tone tinged with skepticism.

Plato glanced over his right shoulder and smiled. “We’ve survived for over a century.”

They crossed over the moat and angled in the direction of E Block.

President Toland inhaled deeply, then sighed. “You know, Plato, I envy you.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, you’re not cooped up in an office all day. Look at this compound. Fresh air. Sunshine. Kids playing. Birds singing. The whole atmosphere of the Home is restful and pleasant,” Toland said. “But I spend an average day in my office, and all I have to stare at are four walls.

From six in the morning until midnight, six days a week, I’m usually behind my desk. I read reports and sign documents and meet with government officials and other visitors to the capital in Denver. Venturing outdoors is a luxury I can rarely indulge. In my capacity as Chief Executive I attend scores of functions each month, and even then I seldom have an opportunity to really relax.”

“Relaxation is essential to a fuller enjoyment of life. Periods of work must be alternated with periods of play,” Plato advised.

“I know that,” President Toland replied. “But the degree of our responsibilities is vastly different. You’re the leader of approximately one hundred people and you oversee a thirty-acre compound. I’m the leader of a few million people, and there are about six hundred and fifty thousand square miles in the Civilized Zone. If our situations were reversed, I doubt you’d find much time to smell the roses either.”

“I’d make time.”

“Easier said than done,” President Toland said. “I’m just glad I don’t have a wife and children. I’d never get to see them.” He paused. “But I guess a person has to make sacrifices in the name of service and duty.”

“Sacrifice is one thing, martyrdom is another,” Plato said. “When you deny yourself a family, when you forsake knowing the joy of binding with a woman and rearing children, you deprive yourself of an essential human experience. Devotion to duty is commendable, but not at the expense of your spiritual welfare.”

President Toland listened attentively, and he wasn’t the only one. Blade stared at his mentor, engrossed.

“The Elders have conducted an extensive study of prewar society,” Plato mentioned in his pedantic style. “We know, for instance, that America was in a state of decline during the decades before the war. The major cities were war zones where drug addiction was epidemic and the police and the military battled gangs of violent youths. Illiteracy was widespread. Instead of teaching ennobling ideals and moral values, the schools taught an insidious humanist doctrine that advocated self-gratification and selfishness. Degeneracy flourished. Euthanasia was encouraged. Teenagers and college students committed suicide at a staggering rate, and the elderly were subjected to a public propaganda campaign designed to entice them to terminate their own lives so they wouldn’t be a burden on the social structure. Most of the politicians, instead of having the interests of the people at heart, were power-mongers who loved money more than they did the idea of serving their fellow man.”

“Are you implying I’m a power-monger?” President Toland asked.

“Not at all,” Plato said. “You sincerely want to improve the conditions under which the citizens of the Civilized Zone live, and you won’t allow vested interests to manipulate the people against their will.” He looked at Toland and smiled. “At least, I hope you won’t.”

“What does all of this have to do with my not getting married?” Toland inquired.

“Our study of the prewar culture revealed an alarming fact,” Plato disclosed. “The populace back then, particularly those in the industrialized nations, had allowed themselves to be swept up in the materialistic mania perpetuated by the money barons. In America, as an example, in order for a typical family to pay their monthly bills it was necessary for both the father and mother to work, leaving their children to be reared by strangers at establishments called daycare centers. Without the loving, nurturing guidance of their parents, the children were left adrift in a morass of immorality where the young ones were preyed upon by deviates and drug czars.”

“I repeat,” President Toland interrupted. “What does all of this have to do with me?”

“Simply this. Nearly everyone in America was infected by the status delirium. The quest for success dominated their lives. The almighty dollar became their god. Their marriages suffered. Their children suffered.

Ultimately, the humanist doctrine of self-gratification destroyed the bedrock of their civilization, the foundation of all culture, the institution of the family and the home. Without the home, any civilization is doomed,” Plato said, staring ahead at E Block. “Those prewar Americans and you have a lot in common, President Toland. Like them, you’re stuck in a rut of your own making. You work yourself to death, and for what? I’m not belittling your devotion to duty, but I strongly suggest you have misplaced your priorities. Will the Civilized Zone government collapse if you take several days off? I doubt it. Will you be happier thirty years from now looking back on the memories of your civil service, or would you be happier remembering thirty years of sharing your life with the woman you love? You’re snared in a frantic rat race, and the only one who can free you is you.”

They covered several yards before President Toland spoke. “I never really thought of it that way. Your reputation for wisdom and compassion is well founded.”

Blade merely gazed absently at the grass, contemplating the pertinence of Plato’s remarks to his own life. Toland wasn’t the only one stuck in a rut. Six months ago he’d reached the same conclusion, and he was no closer to resolving the dilemma. Some problems, evidently, were universal and decidedly difficult to overcome. He glanced at Plato and smiled. Ever since his father, the previous Family Leader, had been killed by a mutation, Blade had looked up to Plato for seasoned counsel. The sage had become a substitute father, in a sense, and the two had developed a deep bond of affection and friendship.

They were within 20 yards of the gigantic concrete bunker containing the hundreds of thousands of volumes personally selected by the Founder.

Kurt Carpenter had attempted to envision the hardships the Family would face, and to stock books instructing his followers and their descendants on how to deal with those hardships. One of the largest sections in the library consisted of hundreds of books pertaining to survival skills. There were also reference books on every conceivable subject, as well as volumes on military strategy, history, hunting and fishing, gardening, woodworking, metalsmithing, weaving and sewing, natural medicine, geography, religion and philosophy, and many, many more. The library functioned as the Family’s prime source of tutelage and amusement.

Plato stopped and faced their visitors. “Would you care for refreshments? You must be hungry after your long flight. I can send for some food before we begin.”

“No,” President Toland said. “I’m not hungry, and our business here is extremely urgent.”

“Then let’s get to work,” Plato suggested.

In single file they entered the library and moved to a table in the northwest corner virtually surrounded by six-foot-high wooden shelves crammed with books. Plato took a seat at the head of the table with Blade, Hickok, and Geronimo to his right. President Toland, General Reese, and Captain Laslo sat on the left. Those Family members seated nearby courteously shifted to tables farther away to give the Family Leader and the three Warriors more privacy.

Plato rested his chin in his right hand and locked his inquisitive scrutiny on the president of the Civilized Zone. “What can be so urgent that a special trip to the Home is necessary?”

“I don’t know where to begin,” Toland replied, frowning and exchanging a worried glance with General Reese.

“I’ve seldom seen you at a loss for words,” Plato mentioned. “What is the nature of the emergency?”

President Toland looked at Plato, then each of the Warriors.

“I hope I’m wrong. The evidence isn’t conclusive, but there’s a possibility we have a plague on our hands.”

For a full ten seconds no one spoke. Blade felt his mouth go dry and licked his lips. Now he understood why Toland had displayed such an interest in the Family Healers.

“Can you elaborate?” Plato requested.

“Certainly,” President Toland said. “It all began three days ago when two of our sentry posts in northern Texas were attacked. Sentry Post 17 and Sentry Post 19 are both located within twenty miles of the city once known as Dallas. Sentry Post 17 is approximately fifteen miles north of Dallas on Interstate 35. As you know, we have a network of sentry posts all along our borders. Raiders and scavengers are a constant problem, and our armed forces do an excellent job of defending our boundaries.”

“What transpired at the two posts near Dallas?” Plato queried.

Toland looked at General Reese. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have the general give you the same briefing he gave me.”

“Be our guest,” Plato said.

The Civilized Zone’s Chief of Staff cleared his throat, his brown eyes betraying an uncharacteristic anxiety. “At ten minutes before noon on April twelfth, Lieutenant Garber, the officer in charge of the sector in which Sentry Post 17 and Sentry Post 19 are located, received a call on the radio from the sergeant at Post 19. The sergeant reported that a naked woman on a black horse was approaching his position—”

“A naked woman?” Hickok interjected, and laughed. “You’re pullin’ our legs, right?”

“I assure you I am serious,” General Reese responded indignantly.

“That was the last report we received from the sergeant. Lieutenant Garber tried to raise Post 19 after five minutes elapsed and there was no follow-up, per regulations. When the communications man couldn’t reach Post 19, Garber went to investigate. You’ll never guess what he found.”

“The sergeant and the naked lady eloped?” Hickok quipped.

Plato glanced at the gunman. “Nathan, please. This is a grave matter.”

“Sorry, old-timer.”

“Please continue,” Plato urged the general.

“Lieutenant Garber found nothing,” General Reese revealed. “No sergeant, nor the private who was supposed to also be on duty, and no naked woman.”

“What about the black horse?” Hickok asked.

“No horse either,” General Reese said gruffly. “There was no indication of a struggle. It was as if they vanished off the face of the earth.”

“Most peculiar,” Plato commented.

“It gets stranger,” General Reese declared. “About two hours later, while Lieutenant Garber and a platoon were at Sentry Post 19 conducting their investigation, the communications man at headquarters received two odd calls from Sentry Post 17. The sergeant at that post, Sergeant Whitney, first called in to report loud screaming very close to the sentry hut. A few minutes later he radioed in again, this time to report that a naked woman riding a white horse had shown up at the checkpoint.”

Hickok snorted.

“Sergeant Whitney was cut off in midsentence,” General Reese detailed grimly. “When the message was relayed to Lieutenant Garber, he went immediately to Sentry Post 17. There was no sign of Sergeant Whitney, the private assigned there with him, or the woman on the white horse.”

“Wow! This is serious! We’ve got a passel of females traipsin’ all over the countryside in their birthday suits and turnin’ folks invisible,” Hickok remarked.

General Reese leaned forward. “What is your problem?”

“You’ll have to excuse Hickok,” Geronimo interjected. “He’s been this way since birth.”

“He has?” the general responded.

“I have?” Hickok asked.

“Yep,” Geronimo answered. “Hickok is the only Family member who was ever born with a vacuum between his ears.”

“Mangy Injun,” the gunfighter muttered.

Preoccupied with his concern over Jenny’s probable reaction should he need to travel to Texas, Blade had sat staring at the table, absorbed in his dilemma. Now he swiveled in his chair and looked at Hickok and Geronimo. “I want to thank the two of you,” he said.

“For what, pard?” Hickok asked.

“We’ve been close friends since childhood, right?” Blade asked.

“You know we have,” Geronimo answered suspiciously.

“And we’ve been working together in the same Warrior Triad for most of our adult lives, right?”

“Yeah. So?” Hickok said.

“So I want to thank you for all of the practical experience in child rearing you’ve given me,” Blade said. “Working with you two clowns is the same as working with a pair of four year olds, and I think I’m a better father because of it.”

“Didn’t he bring this up once before?” Geronimo asked Hickok.

“Some folks have a one-track mind,” the gunman said.

“If either one of you interrupt again, I’ll have to inflict the worst possible punishment,” Blade told them.

“Extra wall duty?” Hickok asked.

“You’ll assign us to the detail that clears the outer fields,” Geronimo guessed.

“Wrong. I’ll tell your wives that you’ve been acting your mental ages again.”

“That’s not fair!” Hickok declared, horrified at the prospect. “My missus would never let me hear the end of it.”

“You have a mean streak a mile wide,” Geronimo said.

Blade’s features abruptly hardened. “Not another word.”

Neither the gunfighter nor Geronimo responded.

Blade glanced at General Reese. “You can continue now, and I guarantee that no one will interrupt.”

“Thank you,” the officer replied. “Now where was I? Oh, yes. Lieutenant Garber found a few bloodstains at Sentry Post 17, but Sergeant Whitney and the private, a man named Nelson, had disappeared like the two men at Sentry Post 19. The woman on the white horse was also gone.”

Blade glanced at Hickok, who sat quietly with his hands folded in front of him on the table.

“Lieutenant Garber decided to notify his superiors, and he was driving back to Sherman, where the command center for that sector is located, when one of the troopers in his jeep pointed out someone up ahead on the road. They saw a soldier staggering along as if he was drunk, but when they reached him and stopped they discovered he was in a state of shock.

It turned out to be Private Nelson. They transported him to Sherman and our medical specialists examined him.”

“What caused the shock?” Plato inquired.

“We found out, eventually. Nelson wouldn’t respond to interrogation for over twenty-four hours. He sat there like a vegetable, and the doctors were about to throw in the towel when we had a lucky break. A nurse tried to feed Nelson a meal, and when he saw a bowl of salad on his tray he went berserk. Started screaming and ranting and raving. The doctors calmed him down, and he told us that Sergeant Whitney had been captured by a group of crazies. Apparently, the woman on the white horse was a ruse to distract Whitney and Nelson while others snuck up on them unnoticed.”

“How did Private Nelson escape?” Blade questioned when the officer paused.

“He ran for his life,” General Reese divulged. “He emptied his M-16, then fled into the brush to the north. One of the crazies managed to strike him a glancing blow with a steel bar on the side of the head, and he dropped his M-16 and took off. Several of them chased him for about five hundred yards, then inexplicably gave up the chase and returned to the sentry hut. Nelson saw them carting Sergeant Whitney, who he had presumed was dead, away to the south. The woman on the white horse smiled and waved at him. And they took their wounded and dead with them.”

“A very thorough operation,” Plato remarked.

“Both of their attacks on our sentry posts were meticulously planned,” General Reese said. “They weren’t a typical band of raiders or scavengers.

We suspect they came from Dallas, but we don’t know for sure.”

“How do the attacks tie in with the plague?” Plato asked.

“I can answer that,” President Toland said. “Private Nelson reported there were three unusual aspects of the attackers. First, he claimed the woman on the white horse exhibited psychotic tendencies. In his words, he thought she was off of her rocker. Second, their attackers wore very little clothing. Loincloths for the men, and that was about it. Third, their bodies were covered with mysterious green splotches.”

Plato straightened in his chair. “Green splotches?”

“That’s how Private Nelson described them. Irregular green marks about an inch in size.”

“And every attacker bore these marks?” Plato asked.

“Every one,” President Toland said. “Our scientists and medical experts believe the green splotches signify a transmissible disease. A plague.”

“Did you come here to request the aid of our Healers?” Plato asked.

“No,” President Toland said, and stared at the three Warriors. “We want to send a team into Dallas to investigate.” He paused meaningfully.

“We want Blade to go.”