Liberty Run

Chapter Two

The Family was in an uproar by the time Blade returned to the compound.

Everyone was gathered near the drawbridge, anxiously watching the Warriors and the Elders go about their business. News of the deaths of Claudia and Jean had already spread and was the main topic of discussion, along with the implications of the Soviet attack.

Blade, his prisoner in front of him, came across the drawbridge. He spotted the man he needed, a stocky Indian dressed all in green, armed with a genuine tomahawk angled through his brown belt, and an Arminius .357 revolver in a shoulder holster under his right arm.

“Geronimo!” Blade called.

Geronimo shouldered his way through the throng. His brown eyes studied the Russian. “Spartacus said you wanted us to stay here until you returned,” he commented.

“I’ll explain everything later,” Blade said. He scanned the compound.

“Did Hickok make it back with Sherry?”

“Just arrived a bit ago,” Geronomi replied. “Hickok wouldn’t let anyone touch her. He took her to the infimary.”

Blade indicated the Red soldier. “Take him there too. And don’t let Hickok kill him.”

“Will do.” Geronimo drew the Arminius. “Let’s go!” The crowd parted to permit their passage.

A diminutive man with Oriental features, dressed all in black and carrying a katana in its scabbard in his right hand, dashed up to Blade.

“Orders?” he asked.

Blade sheathed his Bowie, then pointed at the forest. “Take your Triad, Rikki, and retrieve the bodies of Jean and Claudia. They’re about ten to fifteen yards into the trees. You’ll also find a pair of dead Russians. Strip them and bury their bodies. Bring me their belongings.”

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi nodded. “We’re on our way,” he said, and raced off.

A tall man with his blond hair in a crew cut, wearing buckskin pants and a brown shirt, with a broadsword attached to his wide leather belt, jogged up to the head Warrior. “I kept them all back, just like you wanted,” he stated.

“You did a good job, Spartacus,” Blade said. “Now I want you to notify every Warrior we’re on alert status. I want Gamma, Omega, and Zulu Triads on the walls within five minutes. Got that?”

“Consider it done,” Spartacus responded, and left.

Blade started toward the concrete structure that housed the infirmary.

“Blade!” someone cried.

Blade turned.

It was the Family leader, Plato. His long gray hair and beard were stirred by the breeze as he approached. His wrinkled features conveyed his apprehension. He was dressed in faded jeans and a baggy blue shirt. “I need your report,” he stated. “The Elders will be meeting in emergency session as soon as you provide the essential details.”

“Come with me to the infirmary,” Blade suggested. “I’ll fill you in along the way.”

Plato fell in beside Blade, and they headed in the direction of the concrete blocks.

The Home was a model of utility and conservation. The eastern half was preserved in its natural state and used for agricultural purposes. A row of log cabins for the married couples and their children occupied the middle of the 30-acre compound, extending in a line from north to south. In the western portion of the Home, grouped in a triangular configuration, were six huge concrete blocks, each designated by a letter. The Family armory was A Block, located at the southern tip of the triangle. The founder, Kurt Carpenter, had personally supervised stocking the armory with every possible weapon and insured adequate ammunition, where needed, was stockpiled. One hundred yards to the northwest of A Block was B Block, the domicile for single Family members. Another hundred yards to the northwest of B Block was the infirmary, C Block, managed by the Family Healers. An equal distance to the east of the infirmary was D Block, the spacious workshop outfitted with thousands of tools and other equipment.

One hundred yards east of D Block was E Block, the gigantic Family library. Carpenter had crammed its shelves with hundreds of thousands of books, encompassing every imaginable subject. Finally, a hundred yards to the Southwest of E Block was the large building used by the Family Tillers, F Block.

“Enlighten me,” Plato said.

“I was on the west wall with Hickok and Spartacus,” Blade elaborated.

“I’d just sent Sherry out as an escort for two new Healers.”

“Yes,” Plato commented. “Jean and Claudia. They were conducting their herb identification test.”

“There was shooting,” Blade continued. “We ran down the stairs. I found Lynx, Ferret, and Gremlin standing near the drawbridge, so I enlisted their help. Spartacus was left behind, to keep everyone back. We raced to the woods and found the bodies of two dead Russian soldiers, and,”—he paused, frowning—“the bodies of the two Healers.”

“What then?” Plato asked.

“I sent Lynx, Ferret, and Gremlin on ahead. They can move a lot faster than we can. They caught up with three Russians, trying to cart Sherry off.

Two of the Russians were killed, but we do have an officer prisoner. That’s about it,” Blade succinctly concluded.

“And Sherry?”

“We’ll know in a minute,” Blade said.

They hurried toward C Block.

“What do you think Nathan will do if Sherry has been harmed?” Plato asked, referring to Hickok by the name his parents had bestowed upon him at birth. Each Family member, on their 16th birthday, was formally rechristened during a special Naming ceremony. Kurt Carpenter inaugurated the rite. The Founder had worried that subsequent generations might neglect their historical antecedents, might forget about the history of humankind and the factors leading up to World War Three.

Carpenter had tried to insure his followers never lost touch with their roots. He had persuaded them to have their children search the history books, and when the young men and women turned 16, they were permitted to select the name of any historical figure they admired as their very own. This practice became known as the Naming, and it survived Carpenter’s death. The Family expanded on it, allowing the youths to take a name from any book in the library. Compliance was not mandatory, but most members adhered to the observance. A few retained the names given them by their parents. Even fewer created a new name of their own. In every case, the name chosen was supposed to reflect the personality of its holder. Thus, 16-year-old Nathan became Hickok. The strapping Michael picked an entirely new name, predicated on his preference for edged weapons, and became known as Blade. Lone Elk became Geronimo.

Clayton became Plato. And 16-year-old Chang, aspiring to achieve perfection as a martial artist and devoted to the ideal of conserving spiritual value and protecting the Family, became Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.

“I expect Hickok will declare war on the Soviets,” Blade predicted.

“At least they would be evenly matched,” Plato commented.

They reached the enormous concrete block and entered the front door.

Only five people occupied the building. Seated on a cot to the right of the entrance was the Russian officer. Geronimo stood three feet from the cot, his .357 trained on the officer’s head. Dozens of cots, aligned in two rows, filled the middle of the infirmary. Medical cabinets were dispersed at prudent intervals. On one of the cots in the center was Sherry. Beside her knelt Hickok. Standing on the far side of the cot was one of the Healers, a brown-haired woman dressed in white.

Blade walked over to Sherry’s cot. “How is she, Nightingale?” he asked the Healer.

“I can answer that for you,” Sherry unexpectedly responded, and sat up.

“I’m fine,” she told Blade.

Hickok held up a white cloth smelling of chloroform. “Geronimo found this in one of the bastard’s pockets. I reckon they wanted her alive and unhurt. Thank the Spirit!”

Sherry stared into Blade’s eyes. “I let everyone down. I’m sorry.”

Blade knew what she meant. “You were ambushed and outnumbered.

There was no way you could have prevented the deaths of Jean and Claudia.”

Sherry frowned, her profound inner turmoil evident. “Yes, there was,” she said slowly. “I sensed something was wrong. I should have acted differently.”

“Believe me,” Blade assured her. “No one will blame you for what happened.”

Sherry’s green eyes mirrored her emotional agony as she replied. “Yes, there is someone. Me.”

Hickok glanced up at Blade, his mouth downturned.

“I need to interrogate the Russian,” Blade said. “But I want to talk with you about this later. All right?” he queried Sherry.

Sherry nodded. “I’ll come see you,” she promised.

Blade smiled encouragingly, then turned, Plato still at his side.

“Sherry is adversely affected by her experience,” Plato commented when they were beyond hearing range.

“I know,” Blade agreed. “We’ve both seen the same symptoms many times before. If she doesn’t conquer her doubt, if she doesn’t realize she didn’t fail in her duty, she’ll be washed up as a Warrior.”

“Curious, isn’t it?” Plato thoughtfully remarked. “A Warrior can be in superb physical condition, can be supremely skilled with a variety of weapons and in hand-to-hand combat, and yet, if the Warriors lacks the proper mental attitude, all the conditioning and skill in the world are wasted.”

Blade nodded. They were nearing the Russian’s cot. The officer was glaring at them. This one wasn’t going to be easy to crack. Drastic measures were called for. “Has he given you any trouble?” Blade asked Geronimo as they reached the cot.

“He’s been a good little boy,” Geronimo answered. “From the way he’s been squirming, I think he needs to go potty.”

“Is that right?” Blade asked. “Would you like to relieve yourself?”

The officer nodded.

“Tough,” Blade snapped, and before anyone could gauge his intent, before Plato could hope to stop him, he lashed out with his right fist, catching the officer in the mouth and sending him head over heels from the cot.

“Blade!” Plato yelled.

Blade stepped over the cot and reached the officer while the Russian was still on his knees. He flicked his right foot up and out, connecting, slamming his instep into the Russian’s ribs, knocking the officer onto his hack.

“Blade! Stop!” Plato cried.

Blade’s left hand grabbed the gasping officer under the chin. He squeezed and lifted, his arm bulging, hauling the Russian from the cement floor and into the air.

Plato went to grip Blade’s arm, but Geronimo quickly stepped between them, shaking his head.

Blade drew his right Bowie and pressed the tip into the Russian’s genitals.

The officer squirmed and thrashed, wheezing, his eyes bulging.

“Now that I’ve managed to stimulate your interest,” Blade said, “I’m going to tell you how it is.” He paused, his gray eyes boring into the officer’s. “You killed two of my Family, you son of a bitch! I’d end your murderous career right now, but I need information. So here’s how it is. I’m going to ask you some questions. If you refuse to answer them, you’re dead. If you hesitate, you’re dead. If I suspect you’re lying, you’re dead. You can tough it out and die, or you can cooperate and live. If you follow me so far, nod.”

The officer nodded. Vigorously.

“Good. I want you to think about something. If you refuse to answer, if you value loyalty more than your life, no one is ever going to know how brave you were! Your buddies, your comrades, will never know how you died! You’ll have died in vain! Think about it. And about this. If you cooperate, I’ll give you a canteen and some jerky and let you go. My word on it. We’ve released prisoners before. We’re not butchers, like you. We don’t kill innocent women. But, as the Spirit is my witness, I will gut you like a fish if you don’t give me the answers I need.” Blade unceremoniously dumped the Russian on the cot.

The officer landed on his left side. He coughed and sputtered, rubbing his neck, gaping at the giant Warrior.

Blade held the right Bowie out, slowly moving his wrist back and forth, allowing the light to gleam off the blade. “What’s your name?”

“Lysenko,” the officer instantly replied. “Lieutenant Frol Lysenko.”

“Why were you sent here?” Blade demanded.

“To capture one of your Family alive and transport them to Washington,” Lysenko responded.

“How were you going to get back?” Blade asked.

“By helicopter,” Lysenko said.

Blade pondered a moment. “Is this helicopter waiting for you or are you supposed to signal it?”

“Signal,” Lysenko disclosed.

“How are you to signal it?” Blade queried. “Be specific.”

“We have a portable radio transmitter stashed about ten miles southeast of here,” Lysenko answered.

Blade contemplated his next question. He was excited about the transmitter. If the radio could be retrieved, the Family would be able to monitor the Soviet broadcasts and perhaps learn information crucial to the continued safety of the Freedom Federation. “How did you discover the location of the Home?”

Lysenko almost laughed. He hesitated for a fraction, then recoiled in fear as the Bowie slashed toward his abdomen. “The spy!” he screamed.

“The spy!”

Blade halted his stroke inches from Lysenko’s stomach. His brow creased. “Spy? What spy?”

“We have a spy stationed in Denver,” Lysenko revealed.

Blade straightened. A spy in Denver? In the capital of the Civilized Zone, one of the Family’s allies? “What’s the name of this spy?”

“I don’t know,” Lysenko said. He saw Blade’s arm tense. “Honest! I really don’t! General Malenkov never told me. All I know is a spy infiltrated the government of President Toland about a month ago, and has been feeding us classified information ever since.”

Blade and Plato exchanged glances. President Toland was the duly elected leader of the Civilized Zone, and one of the few people aware of the Home’s exact location. Many persons knew the Home was in Minnesota, but Minnesota contained almost 80,000 square miles. Anyone searching for the compound could waste a decade in the hunt and still come up empty.

“You mentioned General Malenkov,” Blade noted. “Is this the same Malenkov Hickok encountered when he was in Washington, D.C.?”

Lysenko nodded. “Hickok’s escape embarrassed the general. It was so public… so spectacular. And so many lives were lost! The general hates your Family. He wants you eliminated.”

Blade nearly grinned. General Malenkov’s reaction was understandable.

Hickok, with his usual flair for mayhem, had stirred up the proverbial hornet’s nest in the former American capital. “All right. You stay put. I’ll be back to question you some more later.” He glanced at Geronimo.

“Escort him to the bathroom. Then park him here until further notice.”

“You’ve got it,” Geronimo said.

Blade looked at Plato, then nodded toward the doorway.

Plato followed the Warrior chief outside into the bright sunlight.

“Is there anything you want me to ask him?” Blade inquired.

“Not offhand,” Plato said. “We are already familiar with the Soviet system, and cognizant of their logistical and industrial problems, thanks to Nathan.” He paused. “We must contact Toland and inform him about the spy. Perhaps this secret agent can be apprehended.” He paused again, frowning. “But there is something I would like to discuss with you.”

“What is it?”

“Before I proceed,” Plato stated, “I must qualify my complaint.” He adopted a paternal air. “Blade, I know the Founder had his reasons for organizing the Family the way it is. I know Carpenter believed it was necessary for the head of the Warriors to be permitted to override the Family Leader in a time of crisis. I comprehend the wisdom of the arrangement. And I know interrogating a prisoner is your province.” Plato sighed. “But I really must protest your treatment of Lieutenant Lysenko.”

Blade went to speak, but Plato held up his hand.

“Bear with me,” Plato said. “Lysenko isn’t the first prisoner you have treated so brutally. I doubt he will be the last. And, yes, I can recognize the validity of the psychology behind your methods. But I want to pose a moral issue for your consideration. Don’t answer me right away. Meditate on this.” He cleared his throat. “We, the Family, believe in the guidance of the Spirit in our lives. We believe in exalted concepts of love and brotherhood, don’t we?”

“Yes,” Blade replied.

“We are, after a fashion, symbols for those still languishing in a squalid cultural darkness, are we not?”

“I never thought of it that way,” Blade admitted.

“You should,” Plato said. “Talk to some of your friends in the Freedom Federation. You’ll be surprised at how favorably they view our accomplishments.”

“What’s this have to do with my methods?” Blade asked.

“Simply this. If we claim to be living on a higher moral and spiritual plane than those unfortunates still suffering from the delayed ravages of the nuclear war, don’t we have a certain responsibility to them and ourselves to conduct our behavior according to our highest spiritual dictates?”

Blade studied his mentor. He’d always admired Plato’s wisdom, and reciprocated Plato’s abiding affection. But in this instance, he felt, the Family Leader was wrong. “So what you’re getting at,” he deduced, “is that I should treat our prisoners differently. Not be as hard on them. Is that it?”

“Precisely,” Plato said, smiling. “You see my point?”

“I see it,” Blade declared.

“Excellent.”

“But I don’t agree,” Blade commented.

“Why not?”

Blade raised his right hand and pointed at the west wall. “On the other side of that wall is a world filled with evil, a world where people are murdered over trifles, a world where survival of the fittest is the norm. Oh, there are a few exceptions. The Civilized Zone. The Flathead Indians. The Cavalry. Us. But by and large, a lot of folks out there take each day as it comes, never knowing if they’ll still be alive at the end of it or not. There’s no peace of mind, no security. Existence is hand to mouth.” He swept the compound with his hand. “Well, that’s never going to happen here! I won’t allow it! The only reason we’re able to live on a higher moral and spiritual plane, as you put it, is because those walls, and the Warriors, keep all the killers, all of the degenerates, all of the power-mongers, and every other type of social parasite conceivable outside the Home. Not everybody lives on the same plane we do. A lot of people are outright evil. Wicked. Living to harm others.” Blade leaned toward Plato. “The only methods those vermin understand are the same methods they employ. Violence. And more violence. And if that’s what it takes to preserve the Family, then those are the methods I’ll employ!”

This time it was Plato’s turn to open his mouth to speak; instead, he mutely scrutinized his protege. Plato had taken Blade under his wing after the death of Blade’s father, had even let it be known he wanted Blade to succeed him as Family Leader after his demise. He knew Blade was an outstanding Warrior, perhaps the best the Family had ever seen. Oh, Blade wasn’t as deadly as, say Hickok or Rikki or Yama. But Blade’s overall temperament, despite his tendency to brood periodically, qualified him to be the top Warrior. One day, Plato hoped, if his tutelage was successful, Blade would also qualify to hold the post of Family Leader.

Blade gently placed his right hand on Plato’s left shoulder. “I’m sorry if my methods disturb you. But it simply can’t be helped.” He somberly gazed at the west wall. “You haven’t been out there, Plato. You haven’t seen what it’s like. The constant killing, the senseless slaughter. You must stay on your guard from the moment you leave the Home until the moment you step back inside. It’s sheer hell.”

“True, I haven’t journeyed beyond the Home as extensively as you have,” Plato acknowledged. “But I’m not naive either. I’ve survived attacks by a variety of mutations, the clouds, and wild animals. I saw the carnage the Trolls wrought when they invaded the Home and abducted some of our dearest friends and loved ones. If you’ll recall, I readily assented to sending Alpha Triad to Fox to save the kidnapped women. I also lived through an all-out assault by the Civilized Zone Army while you were in Denver. I wasn’t born yesterday. I know the postwar era is rife with bloodshed, and violence rules. I only wish we didn’t need to subscribe to it.”

“We have no choice,” Blade stated.

Plato sighed wistfully. “I’m reluctant to admit it, but apparently you’re right. It’s so distressing, though, to see us pulled down to their level.”

“When dealing with trash,” Blade philosophized, “you have to expect to get a little dirty.”

Plato scrunched up his nose. “I wish you wouldn’t define it in quite those terms.”

“Just thank the Spirit there’s a big difference between them and us,” Blade mentioned.

“Which difference do you mean?” Plato inquired.

“We may slip into the muck now and then,” Blade said. “But at least we can climb out again.” He paused. “Bastards like Lysenko, and the Trolls and the Doktor too, live in it. Wallow in it. Enjoy it.”

Plato deliberated for a minute. “I never considered the matter in that light.”

“Try it sometime,” Blade recommended. “You’ll sleep better at night.”