Liberty Run

Chapter Five

As it turned out, Blade underestimated. The SEAL stopped for the night just south of what was once Mason City, Iowa. Like many cities and towns, Mason City had been abandoned during the war when the government had evacuated all citizens into the Rocky Mountain and Plains states.

Now, Mason City was comprised of darkened ruins, situated in no-man’s-land, with the Civilized Zone to the west, the Soviet-occupied territory to the southeast, and Chicago far to the east.

Blade had pushed the SEAL the first day. The SEAL had been the Founder’s pride and joy. Kurt Carpenter had expended millions on the transport. Carpenter had foreseen the collapse of mass transportation and the public highway system. Accordingly, he’d provided for the Family’s transportation needs by having a special vehicle constructed to his specifications. The scientists and engineers he’d employed were all experts in their chosen fields, and they’d given Carpenter his money’s worth.

The SEAL was a prototype, revolutionary in its design and capabilities.

The Solar Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle—or SEAL, as it became known—was, as its name indicated, powered by the sun. The light was collected by a pair of solar panels affixed to the roof of the vanlike transport. The energy was converted and stored in unique batteries located in a lead-lined case under the SEAL. The floor was an impervious metal alloy. The body, the entire shell, was composed of a heat-resistant and virtually shatterproof plastic, fabricated to be indestructible. Four huge puncture-resistant tires, each four feet high and two feet wide, supported the vehicle.

Carpenter had wanted additional features added to the transport, and to incorporate them he’d turned to weapons specialists, to hired mercenaries. The military men had outfitted the vehicle with an array of armaments. Four toggle switches on the dashboard activated the SEAL’s firepower. A pair of 50-caliber machine guns were hidden in recessed compartments under each front headlight. When the toggle marked M was thrown, a small metal plate would slide upward and the machine guns would automatically fire. A miniaturized surface-to-air missile was mounted in the roof above the driver’s seat. Once the toggle labeled S was activated, a panel in the roof slid aside and a missile was launched. The missiles were heat-seeking Stingers with a range of ten miles. A rocket launcher was secreted in the center of the front grill, and the rocket was instantly fired if the R toggle was thrown. And finally, Carpenter had had the mercenaries include a flamethrower in the SEAL. It was an Army Surplus Model with an effective range of 20 feet. Located in the middle of the front fender, surrounded by layers of insulation, the flamethrower was activated when the F toggle was moved.

Blade gazed out the windshield at the night. The SEAL’s body was tinted green, allowing those within to see out, but anyone outside was unable to view the interior. He stared up at the starry sky, then twisted in his bucket seat to check out his traveling companions. A console was situated between his bucket seat and the other bucket seat in the front of the transport. Behind the bucket seats, running the width of the vehicle, was another seat for passengers. The rear of the SEAL, comprising a third of its inside space, was devoted to a large storage area for spare parts, tools, and whatever provisions were necessary.

“We’re makin’ good time, ain’t we, Big Guy?” Bertha asked. She was seated in the other bucket seat, her M-16 snuggled in her lap.

“So far, so good,” Blade acknowledged. He glanced at the two passengers occupying the wide seat. “How are we holding up?”

Lieutenant Frol Lysenko was seated behind Bertha. His face conveyed his intense misery. Arms folded in front of him, hunched over dejectedly, he glared at the giant Warrior behind the wheel. “You lied to me!” he whined for the umpteenth time that day.

“No I didn’t,” Blade rejoined.

“Yes you did!” Lysenko snapped. “You promised me my freedom! You said I could have an AK-47 and ammo. Not to mention the canteen and jerky.”

Blade smiled. “I beg to differ. I told you that you would be able to leave the Home, and you left it at sunrise this morning. There are several canteens and five pounds of venison jerky stored in the back of the SEAL. Take your pick.”

Lysenko glowered at the Warrior.

“As for the AK-47,” Blade went on, “we gave you one, remember? It’s not our fault you didn’t want it.”

“Damn you!” Lysenko spat. “What good would it have done me? Sure, you offered me an AK-47 this morning! And you also offered me ten magazines of ammo… but it wasn’t AK-47 ammo!”

Blade shrugged. “I kept my word. I promised to give you an AK-47 and all the ammunition you could carry. I never said the ammo would be for the AK-47.”

“You devious son of a bitch!” Lysenko said.

Bertha glanced at Blade. “Do you want me to bop this sucker for you?”

“No need,” Blade replied.

“I wouldn’t let him talk to me that way,” Bertha commented.

Lysenko made the mistake of leaning forward, sneering. “Oh? And what would you do, woman?” He accented the last word contemptuously.

The M-16 was up and around in the blink of the eye, the barrel rammed into Lysenko’s nose.

The Russian gulped and blinked.

Bertha smiled sweetly, her brown eyes dancing with mirth. “You ever talk to me like that again, honky, and I’ll waste you on the spot. Got that, ugly?”

Lysenko nodded.

Blade grinned. He enjoyed Bertha’s company immensely. They had shared many an adventure over the years, ever since Alpha Triad had rescued her from the Watchers in Thief River Falls. She had assisted them in the Twin Cities, and later had been of inestimable help in the Family’s fight against the wicked Doktor. Although she had been born and reared in the Twin Cities, and spent most of her life involved in the bitter gang warfare there, Bertha had been accepted as a Warrior based on her prior service to the Family. Blade, Hickok, and Geronimo had appealed to the Elders to approve her nomination. Hickok had made a rare, yet oddly eloquent speech calling for her installation as a Warrior, saying at one point, as Blade recalled: “If Bertha ain’t fit to be a Warrior, then neither am I, or Blade, or Geronimo, or Rikki. Bertha may not have been raised in the Home, but she’s as Family as can be. And, more importantly, she’s a born Warrior in her heart. That feisty female can whip her weight in wildcats. So you’d best approve her application, or she’ll most likely storm in here and punch you out.” Blade could still remember the amused expressions of the assembled Elders.

Bertha turned toward the fourth member of their little group. He was seated behind Blade, dressed in a fancy gray shirt and trousers, both tailor-made for him by the Family Weavers. The shirt had wide lapels and black buttons; the pants legs were flared at the bottom. He wore a wide black belt with a silver buckle. Nestled in a black shoulder holster under each arm was an L.A.R. Grizzly. The Grizzly was an automatic pistol with a seven-shot magazine, chambered for the devastating .45 Winchester Magnum cartridge. Its grips were black, but the rest of it was shining silver. The man wore his black hair neatly trimmed around the ears, and a full black mustache added to his strikingly handsome appearance. “What’s with you, Sundance?” Bertha asked. “You’ve hardly said a word this whole trip so far.”

The Warrior called Sundance shrugged. “What did you want me to say?”

“Anything would’ve been nice,” Bertha remarked. “You sure ain’t the talkative type, are you?”

“Guess not,” Sundance responded in his low voice.

Bertha pointed at the Grizzlies. “I’ve been meanin’ to ask you. Are you any good with those pistols of yours?”

“Fair,” Sundance laconically answered.

“You as good as Hickok?” Bertha inquired.

“Maybe,” Sundance said.

Bertha threw back her head and laughed. She reached over and tapped Blade on the shoulder. “Did you hear this idiot? He thinks he’s as good as White Meat!” White Meat was her pet term for Hickok.

“I’ve seen Sundance practice,” Blade mentioned. “He’s real fast, Bertha.”

“Maybe so,” Bertha stated, “but there ain’t no way he could beat White Meat, and you know it.”

“That depends,” Blade said.

“On what?” Bertha retorted.

“On how you mean it,” Blade explained. “If you mean fast on the draw, then I’d have to agree with you. I’ve never seen anyone who can draw as fast as Hickok. But, on the other hand, if you mean fast in firing a gun, then Sundance might have the edge.”

“What?” Bertha said skeptically.

Blade nodded toward Sundance. “He uses automatic pistols, Bertha, Hickok prefers his Colt Pythons, and they’re revolvers.”

“So?” Bertha responded.

“So have you ever compared a pistol and a revolver?” Blade asked.

“No,” Bertha admitted.

“You should sometime,” Blade recommended. “We have a lot of books in the Family library on guns. Dozens and dozens of books, covering everything from bullet-making to replacing busted stocks. We know pistols and revolvers were popular before the Big Blast, and we also know there was considerable controversy over whether a pistol or a revolver could fire faster.”

“What do you think?” Bertha queried.

“I’m getting to that,” Blade said. “The experts debated the pros and cons of both types. Automatic pistols, as a rule, hold more rounds than a standard revolver. Sundance’s Grizzlies, for instance, hold seven rounds in the magazine, while Hickok’s Pythons usually hold five.”

“Five?” Bertha said, surprised. “But the cylinders in the Pythons can hold six bullets.”

“True,” Blade conceded, “but Hickok seldom keeps a round under the hammer. Most professionals don’t. Less chance of an accident that way.”

He paused. “The revolver is normally thicker and slightly bulkier than a pistol. But in reliability, when it comes to things like jamming and dud rounds, the revolver is considered superior. In the accuracy department, both are even when used by a skilled gunman. Revolvers can handle broader load ranges than most pistols, and that’s a plus.”

“But what about bein’ fast?” Bertha interrupted impatiently.

“I’m getting to that,” Blade reiterated. “When it comes to speed, you have to keep in mind the type of revolver we’re talking about. With a single-action revolver, you have to pull back the hammer before squeezing the trigger, and that definitely slows you down. Hickok’s Pythons, on the other hand, are double-action, meaning he can fire either way, by squeezing just the trigger or by pulling back the hammer and then shooting. Double-actions have an edge over single-actions in that respect.”

“But what about bein’ fast?” Bertha asked, sounding peeved.

“I’m getting to that,” Blade repeated again.

“This year or next?” Bertha rejoined.

Blade grinned. “In our last trade exchange with the Civilized Zone, we received two stopwatches.”

“Two what?” Bertha inquired.

“Stopwatches,” Blade said. “You know what a watch is, don’t you?”

“Of course!” Bertha stated. “Do you think I’m a dummy? I saw a lot of watches on the Watchers…” She stopped, then laughed. “Watches on the Watchers! Get it?”

Blade sighed. “I get it.”

“I know the Family didn’t use watches years ago,” Bertha mentioned.

“But I’ve seen a few around since you started tradin’ with the rest of the Freedom Federation. So what’s a stopwatch?”

“It can measure how fast someone moves,” Blade detailed.

“Really?”

“Really,” Blade affirmed. “And Geronimo used one to time Hickok, to see how fast Nathan could draw and fire five shots.”

“How did White Meat do?” Bertha asked him.

“Hickok drew and fired all five shots in his right Python in two-fifths of a second,” Blade answered.

“Is that fast?” Bertha asked.

“Let me put it to you this way,” Blade said. “If you’d blinked, you would have missed it.”

“That fast, huh?” Sundance interjected.

“Yep,” Blade confirmed.

Bertha smiled triumphantly. “So that means White Meat would beat Sundance’s cute butt no problem, right?”

“Not necessarily,” Blade said.

“Cute butt?” Sundance interjected again.

“Now what the hell does that mean?” Bertha demanded of Blade.

“Cute butt?” Sundance repeated.

“It means,” Blade said, “Hickok can draw his Pythons faster than Sundance can draw his Grizzlies.”

Bertha stuck her tongue out at Sundance.

“…but I don’t think Hickok can empty his guns faster than Sundance can empty his,” Blade concluded.

“What?” Bertha stated. “But you just said—”

“I wish you would listen to me,” Blade said, cutting her short. “Yes, Hickok is faster on the draw, but only by a fraction. And yes, his double-action revolvers are the equal of most pistols. But I’ve seen both men shoot, and I believe Sundance can empty his Grizzlies a teensy bit faster. Does that answer your question?”

“It doesn’t answer mine!” Lieutenant Lysenko snapped.

Blade turned in his seat. “You have a question?”

“Yes!” Lysenko snapped. “When the hell are you going to turn off the overhead light and let me sleep in peace and quiet? All this babble is extremely annoying!”

Bertha looked at Blade. “Please let me bop him in the head!”

“We need him,” Blade told her.

“Need me?” Lysenko said. “For what? You won’t get any more information out of me, not after the way you tricked me. I don’t see why you brought me along!”

“Consider yourself our tour guide,” Blade commented.

“You made the biggest mistake of your life when you screwed me over,” Lysenko warned.

“Oh!” Bertha exclaimed. “Somebody catch me! I think I’m goin’ to faint from fright!” She tittered.

“Have your fun while you can,” Lysenko said. “What goes around, comes around.”

“Blade,” Sundance said.

“Yeah?”

“Can anyone see inside when the overhead light is on?” Sundance inquired, staring out his side of the SEAL.

“No. No one can see inside, no matter what. Why?” Blade replied.

Sundance motioned with his head. “Because we have company.”

Blade stared into the night. “Where?”

“At the edge of trees. Keep your eyes peeled,” Sundance said. “You’ll see them moving from trunk to trunk.”

Although he knew they were invisible inside the transport, Blade reached up and switched off the overhead light anyway. If they had to open the doors, the light would reveal them to any foes outside. He scanned the row of trees on his side of the transport. The SEAL was parked on the shoulder of U.S. Highway 65 two miles south of Mason City.

Like the majority of highways and roads, U.S. Highway 65 was in deplorable, but passable, shape. Potholes dotted the highway, intermixed with ruts, buckled sections, and even stretches where the road had been totally destroyed by the twin ravages of time and nature. The SEAL, with its colossal tires, impervious body, and amphibious mode, could circumvent virtually any obstacle. And knowing the SEAL was bulletproof and fire-resistant, Blade hadn’t hesitated to park the transport in the open, on the side of the highway. They hadn’t seen a single soul, not one other vehicle, the whole day. The likelihood of being ambushed was extremely remote. Or so Blade had thought.

“I see them!” Bertha exclaimed. “Lordy! There’s a lot of them!”

Blade could see them too. Dark shadows flitting from cover to cover, slowly advancing toward the transport, illuminated by the half-moon in the eastern sky.

“What do we do?” Bertha asked.

Blade deliberated. They could stay put and trust to the SEAL to protect them from harm. But what if one of those shadows was armed with a hand grenade? What if the grenade was tossed under the SEAL, where the transport was most vulnerable? Or what if they had a bazooka? Blade considered simply driving off, but the act of starting the engine might precipitate an assault. The SEAL’s firepower was nullified by the angle the shadows were using to approach; the machine guns, the rocket launcher, and the flamethrower were all aimed to the front of the vehicle, while the shadows were coming up on the driver’s side. He had to make a decision, and he had to do it quickly. “We need a diversion, something to draw their attention while I start the SEAL.”

“Leave it to me,” Sundance said, and he was in motion even as he spoke, flinging the door open and diving to the ground.

The shadows detected the movement of the door, and a fusillade of gunfire erupted from the trees, handgun and rifle fire, the slugs striking the SEAL, many of them whining as they ricocheted.

Sundance rolled on his shoulders as he struck the earth, and he came up with a Grizzly in each hand as the shadows charged from the forest.

The Grizzlies thundered, one shot after another, eight shots in swift succession, and with every shot a shadow dropped, some screeching in agony as they fell.

Blade clutched at the ignition and twisted the key, and as the engine turned over there was a peculiar smacking sound from behind him and something wet sprayed onto his right arm and the back of his neck. He glanced over his shoulder.

Lieutenant Frol Lysenko was dead. Two of the wild shots fired by the onrushing shadows had narrowly missed Sundance and entered the open door. Lysenko had been struck in the forehead and the chin. The top slug had blown out the back of his head, splattering hair, brains, and blood over the seats. The chin shot had shattered his mouth; part of his tongue and four teeth hung by a thread of flesh from the ruined hole of his mouth.

“Sundance!” Blade bellowed. “Now!”

Sundance fired once more, downing a screaming shadow, and then he spun and vaulted into the SEAL, through the flapping door, as Blade accelerated, flooring the pedal, and the SEAL lurched ahead. Sundance landed on the floor, crouched over, his right elbow on the seat in a pool of Lysenko’s blood. He twisted and slammed the door shut.

The shadows peppered the transport with gunfire as it sped off.

Bertha stared over the pile of supplies, out the rear of the SEAL. “We’re leavin’ them turkeys in the dust!” she exclaimed.

“We’ll go another twenty miles, then stop for the night,” Blade said, abruptly noticing he’d failed to turn on the headlights, an oversight he immediately remedied. He looked over his right shoulder at the Russian.

“Damn!”

“What’s the big deal?” Bertha asked. “It couldn’t have happened to a nicer asshole!”

“We needed him,” Blade stated.

“We can get by without that dork,” Bertha said.

Sundance rose to a sitting position in the seat.

They drove in silence for several minutes.

Blade flicked on the overhead light and glanced in the rearview mirror at the dead officer. “Damn!” he fumed again. He slammed on the brakes and the transport slewed to a top. “Get him out of here!”

Sundance reached across Lysenko’s body and unlatched the far door.

He eased the door open, placed his right brown leather boot on Lysenko’s chest, and kicked.

The mortal remains of Lieutenant Frol Lysenko pitched head-first into the night.