The Fox Run

Chapter One

The blasted dog pack still had his scent!

Blade paused, angry, his gray eyes smoldering, his head cocked to one side, listening intently. How long had they been after him now? Sweat soaked his thick, curly hair and caked his green canvas pants and tattered fatigue shirt to his muscular body. At least a dozen were on his trail, their eager baying filling the morning air. They were close, too close, and narrowing the gap rapidly.

Just what he needed!

Blade ran, balancing the deer carcass on his broad right shoulder, hefting his bow in his left hand. The quiver of arrows on his back and the Bowie knife on each hip bounced as he moved. He’d never make it to the Home with the extra weight, and after the three days of tracking it took him to bag the buck, three days with little sleep and less food, he wasn’t about to abandon the meat to the dogs.

No way!

Blade knew he was only two miles from the Home, two miles from shelter and comfort, two miles from help. But the others had no idea when he would return, they didn’t know which direction he would be coming from, and they wouldn’t be this far from the Home under normal circumstances anyway. In short, he couldn’t rely on any aid from his friends.

He was up the creek without a paddle. Blade smiled grimly. Who was he kidding? He was up the creek without a canoe.

The howling was louder, closer. The fleetest of the pack had the fresh scent of blood in their nostrils, and the aroma goaded them to increased speed.

Blade ran over the crest of a small hill and paused. A natural clearing was forty yards away, half the distance down the hill. It would be his best bet. He would be able to see them coming. Even better, they wouldn’t be able to sneak up on him and nip his hamstrings when his back was turned.

The first dog must have spotted him because a tremendous howl split the dawn.

Blade hurried, running for all he was worth, the buck slowing him down, though, impeding his progress, and he knew he was in trouble, knew he wouldn’t quite make the clearing, even before, he heard the patter of rushing pads on the hard ground and then the ominous, throaty growl from a canine pursuer. He tried to whirl, but he was too late, his movements hampered by the weight of the buck.

The dog hit him squarely in the center of his back, the buck absorbing the brunt of the brutal impact, the force of the blow still sufficient to drive Blade to his knees, and he dropped the deer and twisted, his right-hand Bowie drawn and ready, held waist high, the blade extended.

He’s show these bloodsuckers how he got his nickname!

The lead dog was a big one, called a German shepherd in the days before the Big Blast. Huge, hungry, and deadly, it curled its lips back to display long, sharp teeth, its body crouched, its legs tensed for the spring.

The bow had landed to one side. The buck was lying on the ground between them.

“Come and get it!” Blade hissed.

The dog obliged. The German shepherd leaped, snarling.

Blade side-stepped, his right hand flashing, the Bowie slicing into the dog, opening its neck, crimson spurting over the grass.

The dog yelped and landed unsteadily, wavering, stunned by the sudden loss of blood.

Blade put his Bowie in its sheath and scooped up his bow. He drew an arrow and fired in one smooth, practiced motion, the dog dead on its feet before it realized what had happened, and Blade was spinning, another arrow ready, because the pack was on him now, and the second dog was caught in midair, the arrow thudding into the hairy brown chest and toppling the animal to one side.

The pack didn’t miss a beat.

Another dog, a mixed breed, came in low and fast and struck Blade in the legs as he was notching another arrow to the bow string.

Blade fell, flinging the bow aside, grabbing his Bowie knives, one in each hand, and he rose to his knees, slashing right and left, frantically cutting and slicing, berserk, and he lost count of the number of dogs he laid open, the fur and the dust and the blood flying in every direction, the barking and snapping and yowling reaching a crescendo.

A Doberman pinscher fearlessly plowed into Blade, slamming into his chest, bowling him over, exposed and defenseless.

The pack expectantly howled with glee and closed in.

Blade managed to bury his left-hand Bowie in the Doberman. I gave it my best shot, he thought, which was small consolation for failing to get the meat back to the Family.

Teeth bit into his left calf.

Another dog had his left wrist in a vise grip.

Blade lunged with his remaining Bowie, ramming the knife into a black dog’s throat. He was surrounded by the raging canines.

One of the dogs to his right was abruptly picked up and smashed to the earth, and an instant later the blast from the 30-06 carried to Blade’s ears. Another dog, the one gripping his wrist, twisted and dropped away, flesh and blood erupting from its neck.

Hickok, Blade speculated.

A war whoop was added to the din.

And Geronimo.

Blade grinned, relieved, as the 30-06 continued booming.

Four more of the dogs were down now, and the ones still able took off, making for the nearest cover, a stand of trees and dense brush twenty yards to the west.

The rifleman was reluctant to let them go. Two more dogs were dead before the remnant of the pack reached cover.

Had to be Hickok, Blade knew. Hickok was the best shot, and Geronimo would be loath to waste the bullets.

Blade slowly stood, taking stock of his wounds. He was bleeding from a number of bite wounds, but none were particularly severe. His left wrist was throbbing, the bone exposed. He angrily kicked the dog responsible for his wounded wrist.

“I think the critter is dead,” someone commented.

“He’s obviously not a dog lover,” added someone else.

Blade turned, smiling.

“You always gotta do everything the hard way?” Hickok asked.

“He likes to do things the hard way,” Geronimo observed. “He thinks it builds his character.”

Blade faced his two best friends, grinning.

“We came out of the woods at the bottom of the hill,” Hickok said, pointing, “just as the dogs closed in on you. Had to fire and run at the same time. Tricky. I was hoping I wouldn’t waste a bullet by accidentally hitting you.” He laughed.

“You mean that you were aiming at the dogs?” Geronimo pretended to be surprised.

Blade shook his head at their antics, delighted they were there.

Hickok was examining the shot dogs, insuring that none of them were still alive, his lean frame coiled for action. He held his rifle loosely in both hands, casually sweeping the barrel from side to side. A leather belt was draped around his hips, a holster hanging from each side, his prized ivory-handled .357’s loaded and gleaming in the sun, reflecting the meticulous care and attention they received from their owner. And well they should. With a rifle, Geronimo and one or two others in the Family might come close to tying Hickok, but with a handgun Hickok was unequaled in marksmanship, almost uncanny in his speed and ability to hit any target without consciously appearing to aim his revolver. The .357’s were his by virtue of his skill, and he was called Hickok because he had selected it on his sixteenth birthday, at his Naming. One of the old history books called The Gunfighters told of a man long ago who was a legend with pistols, a man called Hickok, a tall man with blond hair and a sweeping moustache. It was fitting that sixteen-year-old Nathan, already a qualified member of the Warrior Class at that early age, should select as his namesake of the deadliest gunfighter of all time, simply because he, Nathan, was the most proficient gunman in the Family’s history.

The Warrior Class was well trained.

While Hickok checked the dogs, Geronimo kept alert, scanning the tree line, prepared for any assault. In contrast to the blond, thin Hickok, Geronimo was stocky and had black hair. Where Hickok had blue eyes, Geronimo had brown. Where Hickok was tall, Geronimo was short. Where Hickok had long hair and a moustache like his hero, Geronimo wore his hair cut short and his face was clean shaven. And what Geronimo lacked in ability with a handgun, he more than made up for in other areas.

Geronimo was the Family’s supreme tracker, a lingering legacy of his Indian heritage. Geronimo was proud of the Indian in his blood, despite the fact that Plato had informed him his blood contained, at most, one-eighth Blackfoot inheritance. Geronimo could hunt, he was immensely strong, and his eyesight was spectacular at great distances. He was their best trapper, his trap line in the winter months often being their single largest supplier of fresh meat and new skins. Even in the worst of weather, Geronimo would return with food.

Blade, his grey eyes twinkling, motioned at the slain dogs. “Don’t think I’m not grateful for the timely rescue, but how in the world did you know where to find me? Lucky?”

“Design, Plato would say,” Geronimo replied.

“What’s that mean?”

“It means,” Hickok interjected, “that Hazel told us where to find you.

Specifically, which direction you would be coming from. The timing was strictly ours. I’m just glad we didn’t stop to relieve ourselves.”

Hazel. Blade had experienced the results of her unique power several times in the past. Hazel’s official title was Chief Family Empath. The Family was blessed, currently, with six individuals with psychic capabilities. Hazel was the oldest, the one with the most sensitive nature.

“Why was Hazel homing in on me?” Blade asked Hickok.

“Plato asked her to.” Hickok had completed his check of the dogs; they were all dead.

“Why?”

“We don’t know ourselves,” Geronimo answered. “But whatever it is, it’s urgent. Plato sent us to get you back as quickly as we could.”

“I wonder what’s up?” Blade asked, more to himself than the others.

“Instructions?” Hickok requested of Blade.

Blade paused, pondering. He was the section leader of the Alpha Triad, and as such he was responsible for issuing orders and implementing strategy. The Warrior Class was divided into four triads, each with a designated section leader. Plato had paired Blade with Hickok and Geronimo and appointed him as the leader. Plato had said that their teaming “compensated for individual deficiencies and maximized potential achievement.” Plato should know. He was the Family Leader, the wisest man in the Family.

Hickok and Geronimo were waiting.

“We’ll take the buck back, even if it does slow us down a bit,” Blade directed. “The Family needs the food.” Blade rubbed his injured wrist.

“You okay?” Geronimo asked.

“I’ll make it back.” Blade pressed the torn wrist against his left side, hoping to completely stop the dripping blood. The wound was deep, but the veins had been spared and his blood loss was minor. He bent over and retrieved his Bowie from the dead Doberman and slid both knives into their respective scabbards.

“Think we could use any of the dogs?” Hickok prodded one of the carcasses with his left moccasin.

“Too mangy,” Geronimo stated. “Look at their hides. Sores and blisters everywhere. The pelts wouldn’t do us much good, and the meat would be too stringy and tough. Who knows what diseases they’re carrying?”

“Point taken.” Blade nodded in agreement. “Okay. We take the buck and make tracks. Plato wouldn’t want us without very good reason. Hickok, take the point but keep in constant visual contact.

Geronimo, bring the buck. I’ll bring up the rear.”

Hickok was already in motion. Geronimo hefted the buck onto his right shoulder, waited until Hickok was ten yards ahead, then followed.

Blade fell into place behind them, speculating on the explanation for Plato’s summons. He drifted hack in time to his first meeting with the remarkable scholar and philosopher. Of course, nineteen years ago Plato wasn’t so old, nor was he leader of the Family. He had been elected to that post only four years ago, after Blade’s father had been killed by a mutate.

Blade remembered his first impression of Plato was one of extreme kindness, conveyed in the gentle blue eyes, the perpetually wrinkled brow, and the long hair and beard, now gray but then brown.

“So this is your pride and joy?” Plato had said to Blade’s father. “And he’s only five? Big for his age. I see he has his dad’s dark hair and abnormal gray eyes.” Plato had knelt and studied Blade’s youthful, earnest face. “There is character here. He will be a tribute to both his parents.”

Plato had stood, toying with the hairs in his beard as was his habit when deep in contemplation. “Have you noticed that since the nuclear war our records indicate each generation contains a proportionally higher percentage of offspring with hair and eye pigmentation of an unusual coloration and combination?” This fact, apparently, had greatly impressed the sage, and Blade had wondered why. Nineteen years later he still didn’t know.

Blade’s reverie was shattered by a low, piercing whistle from directly ahead. The danger signal. He dropped, flattening on the rough ground, ignoring a stabbing pain in his left wrist, and glanced at Geronimo.

Geronimo was prone too, the buck lying to one side. He was watching Hickok.

There was a small rise in front of them, covered with bushes. Hickok was crouched behind one of the larger shrubs, intently watching something on the other side of the rise. He turned and motioned for them to approach, but he placed a finger over his lips in cautious warning.

Blade followed Geronimo, crawling on his elbows and knees, his left wrist now starting to throb. They reached Hickok.

“Mutate,” Hickok whispered, and pointed.

Every time he saw one, Blade felt an instinctive urge to puke his guts out. They were disgusting, repulsive, an aberration of nature, the consequence of man tampering with cosmic forces better left alone.

This one, once, must have been a black bear.

“Ugly sucker, isn’t it?” Hickok asked softly.

An understatement, Blade thought.

The mutate was standing on the eastern bank of a small stream, the water not more than a foot deep. There was a large pool below the small rise, about twenty feet in diameter. The mutate was concentrating on the pool, apparently hunting for fish. The general shape and size of the creature was that of a bear, and the snout resembled that of a black bear, but the remainder of the beast was deformed and distorted, grotesque and bizarre. The black hair was all gone, replaced by huge, blistering sores, oozing pus from a dozen points, and cracked, dry, peeling brown skin. Two mounds of green mucus rose in place of the ears. The mutate breathed in wheezing gasps, the mouth open, the tongue slack and distended. The teeth were yellow and rotted. The stench was overpowering, and Blade could feel his stomach beginning to toss.

“We’ll swing wide to the south and avoid it,” he whispered to the other two and began to back away.

Hickok was still watching the mutate, and he saw it suddenly rear upright and sniff the breeze. The wind was blowing from the thing to them, so it shouldn’t be able to detect their scent. Then he remembered the buck, and he wondered if the deer smell could carry to the mutate without any strong gust.

The mutate was still smelling, eyeing the rise suspiciously.

Hickok placed his hands on his Colt Pythons.

The mutate shuffled forward and entered the stream, still on its two rear legs. The massive head was swiveling from side to side, the beady eyes searching.

A hand dropped on Hackwork’s right shoulder.

“Think it has our scent?” Blade asked.

“I reckon,” Hickok laconically responded.

“Let’s move.”

They carefully edged backwards and rejoined Geronimo, patiently waiting with the buck draped over his shoulder.

“It knows we’re here,” Geronimo said, immediately assessing the situation.

“Think so,” Hickok said.

They hurried, Blade leading, Geronimo in the center, Hickok bringing up the rear. They had been heading in a southeasterly direction. With the mutate blocking their path they were forced to bear south, hoping to strike an easterly course later on. The Home was only a mile and a half distant.

That fact worried Blade.

A mutate this close to the Home was disturbing and a potential danger to the Family, a very real and extremely deadly menace. Thank the Spirit that the Founder had erected the walls! Without the encircling protection afforded by the twenty-foot-high brick walls, the Family would have long since been overrun by the proliferation of wild animals evident in the area in recent years. The surge in wildlife was inevitable with the decline of man.

“Maybe we’ve lost it,” Hickok suggested.

The underbrush behind them crackled and snapped and loud snorts punctuated the mutates determined advance.

“Damn!” Blade fumed, enraged. He thoroughly detested the mutates, in all their varieties and manifestations. An ordinary black bear would usually avoid contact with humans, fearing the two-legged horrors as if they were walking death. But mutates, in whatever form, deviated from the norm. Every mutate, whether it had once been a bear, a horse, or even a frog, inexplicably craved meat and stalked living flesh with an insatiable appetite. No one, not even Plato, knew exactly what caused a mutate.

Plato was particularly desirous of locating, capturing, or killing a young mutate, a mutate not in adult stages of growth. No one had ever seen any but an adult mutate. Plato had speculated, many times, that mutates were the result of the widespread chemical warfare initiated during the nuclear conflict. If radiation alone was the cause, then logic would dictate that humans would be affected, and there was not a single report in the entire Family history of a solitary human mutate. Plato had emphasized over and over that discovering the reason for the mutates must be a Family priority. Within the past decade the mutates population had increased drastically—apparently by geometric progression, according to Plato—and this fact was fraught with devastating implications.

Blade paused, considering his options. If they continued on their course, even if they reached the safety of the Home, the mutate would follow them to the walls, would know where the Family was based, and it might linger outside, waiting for someone, anyone, to venture outside. Or it might return from time to time, hoping to catch a human out in the open, exposed and vulnerable. Blade couldn’t allow that to happen.

Hickok and Geronimo were standing still, watching him.

Blade surveyed their surroundings. They had stopped in a small ravine, no more than a shallow depression, encircled by trees on every side. The Spirit smiled on them.

“We make our stand here,” Blade announced.

Hickok smiled.

Geronimo, knowing what was expected, dropped the deer carcass in the middle of the ravine.

“Find your spots,” Blade advised.

“You better take this,” Hickok said, and tossed Blade his rifle.

Blade caught it with his right hand.

“At this range,” Hickok went on, “my pistols will be just as effective as the long gun. Besides, your bow wouldn’t hardly scratch a mutate that big.”

Blade grinned and nodded. If the mutate followed their path into the ravine, and there was every reason to believe it would, then it would enter from the north, as they had done. That left three points to fire from.

Geronimo was already climbing the west wall, his sturdy legs pumping.

He reached the top and glanced back, his green pants and shirt, sewn together from the remains of an old tent, making excellent camouflage.

Geronimo disappeared into some trees.

Hickok started up the east slope. “Aim for the head,” he said over his shoulder.

Blade nodded. Frequently, whenever Warriors were socializing, the subject turned to killing, to the best techniques for downing prey or foe alike. Some advocated the heart shot, a few the neck, but Hickok was adamant in his defense of the head shot as the only viable shot to take, whether with a firearm, a bow, or a slingshot. “If you’re aiming to kill,” Hickok had said one night when the Warriors were gathered around a roaring fire, “then aim to kill. Any shot but a head shot in a waste of time, not to mention a danger to yourself and those you’re protecting. If you hit a man or an animal in the chest or neck, or anywhere else except the head, they can still shoot back or keep coming. It takes several seconds, sometimes, for the shock of being hit to register, and those seconds can be fatal for you. But when you hit them in the head, on the other hand, the impact stuns them immediately, and if you take out their brain, you snuff them instantly. No mess, no fuss.”

Sometimes, Blade reflected, Hickok could be as cold as ice.

Hickok was perched on the rim of the depression, his buckskin-clad frame hunched over as he intently studied the back trail. He motioned for Blade to hurry, then vanished behind a boulder.

The mutate must be getting close.

Blade slung his bow over his left shoulder, gripped the rifle in both hands, and ran up the south slope, the lowest. Dense brush covered the slope, right up to the tree line. Blade swung behind the first tree and crouched.

Not a moment too soon.

The mutate appeared at the north end of the ravine. It hesitated, scanning the terrain, uncertain. Its eyes rested on the dead buck.

Come and get it, gruesome! Blade hefted the rifle, eager for the kill.

Mutates gave him the willies!

This one ambled forward slowly, cautiously, not satisfied with the setup, raw animal instincts warning it that something was wrong.

Eventually, Blade knew, the thing would approach the deer. Mutates, like those tiny terrors, shrews, could never get enough to eat. They even ate one another. That fact, Plato maintained, was the primary reason the mutates had not taken over the land. Yet.

The thing grunted, evidently deciding it was safe after all, and it lumbered towards the buck.

Blade silently debated the wisest course of action. He only had seconds to decide. If he waited for the thing to reach the dead buck, they would have the best, clearest shot. But if the mutate touched the deer, came in contact with the meat in any way, it would be useless as food for the Family. The carcass would be irretrievably contaminated. Anything a mutate handled had to be destroyed or removed from all possible human proximity. Could the Family afford the loss of this meat?

No!

The thing was five yards from the buck, head held low, concentrating on its meal.

Blade stood and raised the rifle to his shoulder, quickly sighting, aiming for the head as Hickok advised.

A glint of sunlight on the barrel of the 30-06 alerted the beast, and it immediately threw itself to the left, sensing an ambush, making for cover.

For its bulk and size, the mutate was lightning fast.

Blade was forced to hurry his shot. The gun bucked and boomed, and his shot ripped into the mutate’s neck, blood and yellowish-green pus spurting every which way.

The mutate twisted, snarling, and Geronimo opened up from the west rim, his bullet tearing a furrow out of the top of the mutate’s head.

The thing was furious! It wanted to attack, to rend and tear and crush, but searing pain racked every cell in its body, and it elected to run, to seek cover, then circle and pounce when its quarry would be off guard. The mutate charged up the east wall of the ravine, bellowing with rage and frustration.

That was when Hickok closed the trap. He calmly came into view, his feet firmly planted, his hands on his Colts.

The mutate was twenty yards from Hickok and it roared when it spied him blocking its escape route.

Hickok did not draw his .357’s.

The mutate was closing, the mouth wide open, the horrible teeth exposed.

Hickok remained immobile.

The mutate was pouring on the speed.

“Now!” Blade screamed, wondering why Hickok was waiting and knowing the answer, knowing that Hickok thrived on excitement, that he reveled in danger and adventure, and dreading that, this time, Hickok had gone too far, that the gunman had overestimated his ability.

But he was wrong!

Hickok drew, the Colts clearing leather simultaneously, the two shots as one, the slugs striking the mutate’s forehead, and the thing stumbled, recovered, and continued to charge, even as the Colts cracked again, and a third time, and the mutate was dead on its feet, carried forward by the force of its own momentum, up and over the top of the east wall.

Hickok leaped to one side.

The mutate plowed into a large tree and dropped on the spot. There was a final, wheezing gasp, then silence.

Hickok stared at the dead creature for a moment, smiling. He casually twirled the Colts and replaced them in their holsters in a quick, fluid motion.

Blade and Geronimo were running towards the buck. Hickok joined them.

“That was a stupid thing to do,” Blade snapped when they regrouped.

“Were you trying to get yourself killed?”

Hickok simply shrugged.

“You take too many chances,” Geronimo asserted.

“Why do you do it, Nathan?” Blade asked, suppressing his anger. “Don’t you realize that one day your grand plays will be the death of you?”

Hickok glanced at the mutate, at the ground, and at his friends. “Can you think of a better way to go? I’d rather die in a fight, with my guns in my hands, than old, sick, and decrepit.” Hickok lowered his voice, and his companions were surprised by an insight into his character they’d never glimpsed before. “You both heard Plato. About six or seven months ago.

The Family records show that each generation is not living longer, like it used to be in the old days, before the Big Blast. Each generation has a shorter life expectancy now. Plato said it’s more than our constant fight for survival, more than our lives being a lot harder than life was in the old days. He said he wasn’t sure what was causing our shorter life spans, our aging earlier and earlier in each successive generation. He suspected some form of radiation-induced genetic imbalance just might have something to do with it, but he doesn’t have the equipment he needs to be certain.”

Hickok absently drew a circle in the dirt with the toe of his right moccasin.

“Don’t you see?” he continued. “Look at Plato. He’s a prime example.

He’s… what? Not quite fifty? And look at him! Already he’s gray and wrinkled, old way before his time. I went and did some checking in the library. I’ve compared pictures in the different books. Plato looks the way a man of seventy or more would have looked before the nuclear war. And that’s going to happen to us, sure enough.”

Hickok angrily slammed his right fist into his left palm.

“Well, I’m not about to let it happen to me!” he brusquely declared. “I’m going to go out while I’ve still got my senses about me!” He fell quiet for a moment, then resumed. “Besides, it really doesn’t matter how we go.

Plato’s convinced me that we’ll survive this world, that there is a higher plane of existence. It isn’t important how we get there, just so we get there.”

Blade was disturbed. He could see the logic in Hickok’s argument, and it bothered him, but he completely disagreed. “What if you marry some day?” he asked Hickok. “What then?”

Hickok shrugged. “Cross that hill when I get to it.”

“And when you do,” Geronimo chipped in, “I predict you’ll change your tune.”

“We’ll see,” was as far as Hickok was willing to commit himself.

Blade wanted to change the conversation and dispel the moodiness settling in.

“My wrist is bothering me,” he announced, and it was. “I better have it tended before dirt gets in the wound and it becomes infected.”

“Yeah.” Hickok drew his right Magnum and began reloading the spent cartridges from his cartridge belt. “And the old man did say he wanted us back as soon as we could manage it.”

“I wish you wouldn’t refer to him like that,” Blade said stiffly.

“The old man?” Hickok grinned. “I like Plato, sure. But he’s not my favorite person like he is yours. I don’t mean anything personal by it.”

They had discussed Hickok’s apparent lack of respect for Plato before, and Blade was about to wade in again, to defend his mentor, when Geronimo sighed.

“Why am I doing all the carrying today?” he demanded. He slung his rifle over his left arm, stooped, and lifted the buck onto his right shoulder.

“Glad you’re not much of a hunter, white man.” He smiled at Blade.

“And what do you mean by that?”

Geronimo started walking. “Look at this buck.” He gave the carcass a whack. “All skin and bones. Not much more than a year or two old.”

“We need the meat and the hide,” Blade reminded him, following.

“I’m not complaining,” Geronimo said. “Makes it easier for me. If this thing was full grown, you’d be helping me right now, sore wrist or not.”

“You want me to lend a hand, pard?” Hickok had loaded his revolvers.

“I can manage,” Geronimo snapped indignantly. “And why do you persist in using that phony Wild West talk? You were taught in the same school we were, by the same teacher. So where do you get off talking like you really were Wild Bill Hickok?”

Hickok pretended to be hurt by the rebuke. “What is this?

Pick-on-Hickok Day or something?”

“Now that Geronimo mentions it,” Blade interjected, “I’ve often wondered about the same thing myself. Why do you talk that way sometimes?”

“Just count your lucky stars I’m not partial to that Shakespeare dude,” Hickok replied. “What a loser! Imagine anyone talking like that! As for me…” He paused. “I feel comfortable dressing like Hickok and talking like Hickok…”

“Like you think he talked,” Geronimo corrected.

“…and if it makes me feel good, what’s wrong with that? Maybe it helps me forget.”

“Forget what?” Blade wanted to know.

“Forget who I am, and where I am, and the utter senselessness of it all.”

Blade was sorry he had asked.