Madman Run

Chapter Seven

Warily the three youths neared the castle wall, using every available cover. At the edge of the forest, when they hid behind trees and scanned the blue sky, it didn’t take long to spot their aerial nemesis.

The small plane was flying in a circle around the castle, just above the turrets, continually performing the same pattern.

“What do you reckon it’s doing?” Hickok whispered.

“Looking for us,” Geronimo guessed.

Blade regarded the aircraft solemnly. Whoever controlled the plane would employ it to try and stop them from entering. He’d made the mistake of letting the craft dive-bomb them yesterday; he wasn’t about to let history repeat itself. “Gernimo, take it down.”

“With pleasure,” the Blackfoot replied, raising the Winchester to his right shoulder. He patiently aimed, tracking the craft’s flight and waiting for the right moment.

“We don’t have all day,” Hickok said.

“Hold your horses,” Geronimo retorted. The plane was over the southeast turret, its tiny propeller a blur, moving faster than a bird in flight. He inhaled deeply, steadied the barrel and fired.

A shower of sparks and metal exploded from the center of the aircraft, and it went into a steep spiral, tendrils of black and white smoke trailing in its wake. Narrowly missing the rampart, the plane slanted toward the edge of the woods, diving straight at the trio.

Blade awoke to the danger first. Such a small craft posed little threat, but the load it undoubtedly carried did. “Scatter” he shouted, turning and dashing northward. He prayed the others were doing the same. Five yards he covered. Ten. A wide tree trunk on the right offered the sanctuary he needed, and he ducked behind it at the same second the aircraft hit the earth.

The resultant explosion was deafening. Trees buckled or shook. The very ground trembled as if from a quake. Dust and leaves and bits of wood formed a choking cloud vastly larger than the one before.

Hugging the grass, Blade felt the ground move under him. He held his mouth down low to avoid breathing in the swirling cloud and waited for it to disperse. Dirt and jagged pieces of timber rained down, covering him from head to toe. Impatient to learn the fate of his friends, he peered at the spot where the plane struck but saw no movement.

Gradually the cloud dissipated. Blade rose and moved closer to the impact point. “Geronimo! Hickok! Where are you?”

Silence greeted his cry.

Over a dozen trees had been toppled or shattered by the explosion and littered the ground in a jumbled mass. Falling leaves formed a carpet over everything.

“Hickok! Geronimo!” Blade called out again.

“Over here,” the Blackfoot responded, appearing from behind an oak situated 20 yards to the south.

“Where’s Nathan?”

Geronimo blinked. “I don’t know. I thought he was with you.”

“I haven’t seen him since we took cover.”

They walked slowly toward the center of the blast area, scouring the tangled trunks and branches.

“Hickok!” Geronimo yelled. “Answer us!”

Anxiety tugged at Blade’s mind. If anything had happened to the colorful gunfighter, he’d never forgive himself. The idea to travel to the castle had been exclusively his; he was directly responsible for the fate of his friends. He shoved a busted section of limb aside and bent down to peer under a fallen tree resting on top of another downed monarch of the forest.

“Hickok! Hickok!” Geronimo kept shouting, turning every which way.

“Quit playing games and tell us where you’re at.”

No answer was forthcoming.

Not until the two of them reached the middle of the flattened vegetation did Geronimo voice the concern uppermost on their minds.

“What if he’s dead?”

“We won’t stop searching until we find him.”

“He must be buried under one of these trees,” Geronimo guessed.

“Maybe he was flattened like a pancake.”

Blade scanned the ground, dreading the very thought. “We don’t know that,” he said gruffly. “Don’t assume the worst.”

“He might be a royal pain in the neck sometimes, but deep down he’s one of the most decent guys I know,” Geronimo lamented. “You couldn’t ask for a more loyal friend.”

“Will you quit talking like he’s dead?” Blade snapped.

Geronimo began moving brush, his features downcast. “I’d never tell him to his face, but I’m proud to know him. To tell the truth, I even liked his sense of humor.”

From ten yards to the east, from under a pile of shorn branches and uprooted vegetation, came a triumphant bellow. “Aha! I heard that!”

“Uh-oh,” Geronimo said.

Blade hastened over and got there just as the gunfighter succeeded in shoving the branches off and slowly stood. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, sure,” Hickok replied, coughing. “I love being blown to smithereens.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Hickok stated, checking to ensure his prized revolvers were still in their holsters.

Blade brushed several leaves from the lean youth’s left shoulder. “You had us worried to death. Why didn’t you answer when we were shouting?

The least you can do is explain.”

Hickok bowed his head as if ashamed. “I tripped,” he mumbled.

“You what?”

“Tripped. I was runnin’ to beat the band when my foot got caught on this bush and down I went. Then the blamed plane hit, and I felt certain my number was up. The concussion must have knocked me out for a bit, because the next thing I knew I heard voices and there you guys were yakkin’ about me.”

“You were lucky,” Blade said.

“Tell me about it.”

Geronimo walked toward them, snickering. “Did I hear correctly, clumsy? You tripped?”

“And did I hear you say that you like my sense of humor?” Hickok countered.

“Me? Give me a break. The explosion rattled your brain.”

“I heard you,” Hickok stated. “Don’t try to weasel your way out of this.”

The Blackfoot straightened up indignantly. “Indians never weasel.”

“Do they lie?”

“Definitely not.”

“Then you’re not an Indian.”

“All right, already,” Blade interjected. “We have more important things to concern us than Hickok’s sense of humor.”

“See?” The gunfighter beamed. “Even you admit I have one.”

Sighing, Blade pivoted and started toward the castle. His gaze alighted on the base of the east wall, and surprise halted him in midstride. “Look!”

he exclaimed. The others focused on the building. Where before there stood a solid wall, there was now a wide crack running from the ground to a height of ten feet. The force of the explosion had wrenched the very foundation, causing the massive stones to shift and split . A yard wide at the bottom, the crack tapered to a few inches at the top. Beyond lay impenetrable darkness.

Stunned by the discovery, the three of them converged on the wall.

“I don’t see nothing movin’ in there,” Hickok commented.

“Are we going in?” Geronimo asked.

“I am,” Blade declared. “You two can stay outside if you want.”

“What’s that crack supposed to mean?” Hickok demanded. “One for all, remember? Where you go, big guy, we go.”

“I hate to say this,” Geronimo said, “but Nathan is right.”

The gunfighter chuckled. “Am I on a roll, or am I on a roll?”

Blade trained the Marlin on the opening and listened for strains of music or other sounds from within, but all he heard was the whisper of the breeze. He stopped at the wall and felt a cool draft on his face. A dank scent tingled his nostrils.

“Looks like the inside of Geronimo’s noggin’ in there,” Hickok noted.

“Want me to make a torch?” the Blackfoot volunteered.

“Go ahead,” Blade directed. He tentatively leaned into the crack and distinguished the outlines of a wide corridor but no sign of life. The interior resembled a tomb.

“I imagine whoever owned the flyin’ contraption is a bit riled at us right about now,” Hickok mentioned. “We’d best be extra careful.”

“At least we won’t have to worry about them using explosives on us when we’re inside,” Blade said.

“True, but who knows what other tricks these yahoos have up their sleeves?”

Blade leaned against the wall and waited for Geronimo to construct a makeshift torch.

First the Blackfoot selected a suitable length of straight limb, then chomped off the thin offshoots. Next he went to a pine tree and hacked away a section of bark, exposing the sap-coated trunk. Quickly he rubbed the thick end of the limb back and forth across the sap until it was caked with the sticky substance. Pivoting, he began collecting dried leaves into a pile. Once he had enough, he placed the end of the limb in the middle of the pile and used his left hand to pack the leaves onto the sap. Finally, he started a small fire with his flint, dipped the torch into the flames until it caught, then stamped out the fire.

“Here we go,” Geronimo said, rejoining them.

Hickok feigned a yawn. “Is it still the twenty-first century?”

“Very funny.”

“Let’s go,” Blade declared, easing through the crack. He moved a few feet and waited for the others. The moment Geronimo entered, the flickering torchlight illuminated the high corridor for a considerable distance, revealing stone walls and a stone floor.

“Reminds me of a cave,” Hickok commented.

“Don’t let your guard down for an instant,” Blade cautioned, leading the way. He spied a recessed doorway on the right and stealthily headed toward it, bothered by the pervasive silence. There should be noise of some kind. He knew people were living there; he’d seen one of them. So where were they?

A large wooden door materialized in the shadows.

Holding the Marlin in his left hand, Blade reached for the black handle and paused when the latch clicked loudly. Anyone on the other side was bound to have heard. Standing to one side, he pulled the door open.

Within was a musty chamber as inky as the corridor.

Cautiously entering, Blade placed his back to the wall while his friends followed. Revealed by the torch was an enormous living room containing two sofas, a half-dozen chairs, and in one corner, incredibly, a grand piano.

“Wow,” Hickok breathed.

“Everything is in perfect condition,” Geronimo said.

Blade had noticed the same thing. He realized there must be countless treasures from the past on every floor. Walking through the castle was like taking a stroll back in time to the days before the war. “Stay close,” he instructed them, as he moved out to the corridor. Taking a right, he proceeded deeper into the fascinating enigma.

For a good 20 yards there were only blank walls, then a stairway appeared on the left.

Stepping closer to investigate, Blade found there were steps leading upward and a flight going down. From below wafted a musty, moist smell.

“Which way, pard?” Hickok asked.

Before Blade could answer, they all heard a rustling noise and glanced up at the next landing. Standing in the open, her long, dark hair partially concealing her features, was the woman in the white dress. As soon as they laid eyes on her, she bolted.

“After her!” Blade cried, bounding up the stairs three at a stride and outpacing his companions before he took the first turn. Ahead was the mystery woman, fleeing as if her life depended on it, the lower half of her dress billowing behind her, already at the next landing. He saw her dart down a corridor and increased his speed.

“Wait for us,” Hickok shouted.

But Blade had no intention of letting the woman escape. He attained the landing and spied her racing figure far ahead, her white dress making her easy to spot. “Wait!” he cried. “We won’t hurt you.”

Apparently she didn’t believe him because she kept on running.

Blade took off, disregarding the fact that darkness now enveloped him.

He thought he saw the woman dart to the left, possibly through a doorway, and he concentrated on the exact spot as he narrowed the gap.

Sure enough, he found an open door and rushed recklessly inside, then halted. Not a trace of light broke the solid curtain of black, and he couldn’t determine where the walls were or if there was furniture scattered about.

Since he couldn’t see her but suspected she was hiding nearby, he decided to try coaxing her out. “I know you’re in here, lady,” he declared in his most mature tone. “You have nothing to be afraid of. My friends and I have come in peace.”

The black curtain mocked him with its silence.

“Please believe me,” Blade urged. “We only want to talk to you, nothing more. Come out where I can see you.”

That was when the net dropped over his shoulders.