The Fox Run

Chapter Two

The Founder, as the Family called him, had built well.

Kurt Carpenter, as revealed in his other legacy, the diary he left behind, had been a filmmaker, an environmentalist, yet practical, an idealist and a visionary, all the while retaining a mature, firm grasp on reality. When others had said that the world’s leaders would never blow up the planet.

Carpenter had smiled and shook his head in disagreement. When the talks had broken off and the media had offered hope that peace could still be maintained. Carpenter had known better. When his many friends had gently derided him for spending so much time and his considerable fortune on his pet project, Carpenter had wisely ignored their barbs and proceeded anyway.

Yes, Kurt Carpenter had been extraordinary and, like the majority of forward-looking individuals in the course of human history, he had been ridiculed and sneered at, castigated behind his back, and mocked to his face.

Ironically, Carpenter, in a sense, had had the last laugh.

When World War Three finally had erupted, when the misguided political madness known variously and collectively as government had attained inevitable fruition, Carpenter and those relatives and friends he had gathered about him at his carefully selected survival site actually had outlasted his many detractors.

The horror of the aftermath of global nuclear devastation had precluded any urge to gloat; conversely, Carpenter had often wished he had perished in the holocaust, that he had not lived to see the world as he knew it come to an abrupt end. Living had become a bitter experience, an excruciating conflict for the simple basic necessities. The world had done a radioactive flip-flop, and the terrifying results were worse than anyone had predicted they would be. For instance, Carpenter had never anticipated chemical warfare would be extensively employed, never envisioned the outcome, and had failed to include chemical contingencies in his master plan. In the end, one of the clouds had gotten him.

Still, all in all, Carpenter had built well.

The Home, as Carpenter dubbed his survival site—and the name stuck—was built on a thirty-acre plot. First, he had surrounded his site with sturdy brick walls, twenty feet high. Later, his followers would string barbed wire all around the top of this first fortification. Next, along the inside of the wall, he had dug a twenty-foot trench. A large stream flowed across his property, entering from the northwest and exiting towards the southeast. Using aqueducts, the walls had been constructed over the stream. He had diverted part of the flow to the inside trench, creating another effective barrier, a moat. He knew human nature, knew that with the decline of civilization, culture, and law, society would revert to primitive, bestial levels, and he wanted his Family, as he affectionately called his followers, to be prepared to defend itself if the need arose.

Carpenter’s buildings had been fabricated with strength and durability in mind, from reinforced concrete. The Home would have never survived a direct nuclear hit, or even a near miss, but he had selected his isolated site with that possibility in mind. He had located his survival site as far as possible from primary military targets, and the nearest civilian metropolis had been hundreds of miles distant. His buildings, both above and below ground, had been built according to scientifically calculated specifications for optimum impenetrability. He had been confident the Home would not be destroyed in the initial attack.

Carpenter’s main worry had been the fallout. He had realized the pattern of fallout would be dictated by the targets hit, the number and type of weapons used, and, more importantly, the prevailing wind currents and other weather conditions. His fear of fallout had been his reason for building the underground chambers, well stocked with provisions, oxygen tanks and masks, an internal ventilation system, and the special equipment required for the monitoring of gamma rays. Fortunately, the direct fallout the site received had been minimal, and within a month of the nuclear war the Family had been able to come above ground again.

All these facts, and more, Kurt Carpenter had detailed in his diary. They were taught to every child in the Family during their schooling years.

Blade was thoroughly versed in the story of Kurt Carpenter’s life and lasting triumph, and he ruminated on the implications as the Alpha Triad descended the hill west of the Home.

A strident horn sounded inside the Home.

“They’ve seen us,” Hickok commented.

They could distinguish figures scurrying along the rampart on the upper level of the wall. Most of them were congregating above the drawbridge placed in the center of the western wall. The fields surrounding the Home were kept cleared of all vegetation except grass, a necessary precaution against surprise attack for human and bestial foes.

As they crossed the field nearest the drawbridge, Geronimo scanned the people on the wall. “Jenny is waiting for you,” he said to Blade.

Blade squinted, compensating for the glare of the bright sun. “Where…?” he began.

“I see her,” Hickok confirmed. “Just to the south of the drawbridge.”

Blade spotted her too. Her blonde hair was swaying in the breeze, and she waved at him.

Blade returned her wave.

“So when are you two binding?” Hickok asked.

“When we’re damn good and ready,” Blade snapped.

“Touchy.” Hickok grinned.

“You know how he is about his personal affairs,” Geronimo said. “Why bait him?”

“It’s just his nature,” Blade responded before Hickok could reply.

“And it keeps you from getting a swelled head,” Hickok cracked. “Our future leader should maintain a firm grasp on humility, and not distort his importance out of all proportion.”

Blade stopped. “What do you mean by that?”

Hickok and Geronimo were still walking.

“I said,” Blade emphasized, “just what the hell do you mean by that?”

They halted and faced him.

“I was just quoting Plato,” Hickok said. “No need to lose your temper, Red.”

“You know what he meant,” Geronimo offered.

“Do I?” Blade retorted.

“Don’t play the naive innocent with us,” Hickok stated sharply.

“Whether you like the idea or not, pard, the fact is that Plato wants you to become leader after he kicks.”

“What if I don’t want the responsibility of leadership?” Blade countered.

“Tough,” Hickok said.

“Why must we go over this again and again?” Geronimo asked Blade.

“Because I’m not sure I want to be leader,” Blade replied honestly.

“Why not?” Hickok demanded. “Too good for us?”

“Maybe I don’t want over six dozen lives dependent on decisions I would be required to make.”

“The Family must have a leader,” Geronimo reminded Blade. “And you have the natural aptitude and ability a leader should have. It’s in your blood, Plato says. Your father had it.”

“And look where it got him!” Blade rejoined.

“Now is not the time and place for this.” Geronimo waved his left hand in the direction of the Home. More members of the Family were gathered for their homecoming.

“Let’s go.” Blade glared at Hickok, who laughed, and led the way.

The drawbridge was being lowered and a reception committee was forming on the other side of the moat.

Blade scanned the rampart, but Jenny was gone. A moment later he saw her come into view on the drawbridge. She waved again and ran towards him.

The horn blasted again.

Blade glanced up at the lookout post on the northwest corner of the wall.

Whoever had duty had already spotted them and sounded off, so why was he blowing the horn again?

The lookout blew twice more, paused, then three more times.

“Damn!” Hickok exclaimed.

“Where?” Blade was turning, searching the horizon.

“There!” Geronimo pointed.

Three quick notes, a pause, then three more. It could only be one thing.

Blade saw it, and his skin crawled.

The cloud was creeping over the hill behind them, shrouding the forest in a peculiar greenish mist, traveling slowly, borne by the breeze.

“Blade!” Jenny screamed, running faster.

“Make for shelter,” Blade directed his friends.

Hickok obeyed, running. Geronimo, fatigued from carrying the buck for two miles, started to shuffle off.

“For God’s sake,” Blade yelled, “drop the carcass!”

“But the food…” Geronimo started to protest.

Blade grabbed the deer by a rear leg and yanked, toppling the buck to the ground. “You’re more important! Move!”

Geronimo sprinted towards the Home.

Blade looked back. The wind was picking up, it had shifted since the mutate incident, and was now coming from the west, bearing the cloud right down on them. It was coming fast, too fast!

“Blade!”

Jenny was by his side, gripping his right hand, squeezing hard. There was a hint of panic in her voice, in her wide green eyes. Her white blouse was heaving, her breathing labored, from her exertion.

“Let’s go!”

They fled.

The cloud was at the border of the field, sweeping in. A faint hiss carried through the air.

Jenny stumbled in a rut and fell on one knee, tearing a hole in her already faded and patched jeans, stifling a cry.

Blade heaved her to her feet. “Hurry, honey!”

How could the damn thing move so fast? No wonder the clouds had claimed so many lives over the years, including that of Kurt Carpenter.

Blade and Jenny ran all out, breathing hard.

They crossed the drawbridge and Blade spotted one of the Family striving to raise the massive mechanism by himself.

“Leave it!” Blade ordered.

“But…” the man protested, knowing his duty was to always insure the drawbridge was promptly closed after any opening.

Blade recognized him. “It won’t keep the cloud out, Brian! Want your wife to become a widow? Move!”

Brian fastened his brown eyes on the approaching cloud, nodded, and ran for shelter.

The green cloud had consumed half of the field.

Blade drew Jenny with him. Ahead, Hickok and Geronimo were entering the C Block. Smart choice.

The hissing was louder.

The compound was nearly deserted. The Family had taken shelter in the underground chambers. Those chambers were the last refuge in case of an attack by human, or inhuman, sources. Provisions were continually replenished. There were six concrete buildings within the brick walls, each one in reality a reinforced bunker. Below each building, called a Block after the customary military fashion, was a survival chamber. Access was gained via a hidden trap door, and every door was practically impregnable, consisting of alternating steel plates and insulation designed to filter any harmful particles, such as fallout, and reduce the penetration of ionizing radiation.

Blade and Jenny reached the doorway to C Block. Blade saw the trap door, in the northeast corner, open and beckoning.

Behind them, a woman shrieked in terror.

Blade whirled.

An infant, a toddler, was wobbling on unsteady little legs toward the drawbridge, towards the cloud, now only fifty yards from the Home.

“Mark!” the woman, Nightingale, screamed.

“Come back!” She was standing fifteen yards away, trembling, wanting to rescue her offspring but too petrified to make the attempt.

The small boy was still moving in the direction of the cloud.

Blade released Jenny and headed for Mark.

“Blade!” Jenny called after him.

“Stay there!”

The green cloud was only forty yards from the drawbridge, wispy, vaporous tentacles probing ahead of the main mass, reaching, searching, seeking flesh. Inexplicably, the mysterious clouds left vegetation unaffected by their passage. Any humans or animals, however, were never seen again if consumed by a cloud.

Blade knew the child was fascinated by the cloud, dazzled by a sight unlike any other the boy had ever seen. In a matter of moments, it would become the last sight the boy ever saw.

The creeping menace was closing on the drawbridge.

The boy had stopped just yards from the drawbridge, gaping.

Blade was running full out, straining his leg muscles to their limit.

“Mark!” the mother screamed again.

Mark twisted, glancing over his right shoulder.

The breeze slackened just a bit, and the cloud slowed.

Mark smiled at his frantic mother and returned his wondering eyes to the cloud, marveling.

Blade could feel his blood pounding in his temples, the toll on his leg muscles causing sharp pain in his thighs. He had gone too long without adequate rest and proper nourishment.

The cloud was almost at a standstill.

The boy ambled onto the drawbridge.

No! Blade lacked the energy to voice his warning. He concentrated on moving, on maintaining his speed. Speed was everything.

The preternatural hissing filled the air, resembling the sound of a pan of frying turtle amplified a thousand times. The wind suddenly picked up and the cloud resumed its advance.

Blade reached the boy. He scooped Mark into his arms and hugged him to his chest. For an instant he paused, riveted, watching the opaque cloud eat up the distance.

“Blade!” he heard Jenny yell.

Blade spun.

“Mommy!” the boy shouted, beginning to cry, suddenly terrified.

“We’ll make it!” Blade assured him.

But would they? Blade could not afford a backward glance as he made for C Block. He saw Nightingale and Jenny were standing side by side near the doorway. Nightingale had apparently run to Jenny for comfort, for support. Jenny’s right arm was around Nightingale’s shoulders, their expressions ashen, their eyes wide. Mark was bawling, and Blade felt several warm tears spatter on his neck.

The hissing crackled in his ears.

To his right, out of the corner of his eye. Blade caught movement. He risked a quick look-see and his breathing increased.

A finger thin green tentacle was coming at him. Thin, yes, but just one whiff and he was instantly dead.

“Mommy!” Mark squealed.

His attention still focused on the approaching tendril, Blade missed spotting a small hole in the ground in front of his churning feet.

“Mommy!” the instinctively horrified child screeched.

Blade hit the hole and went down.

The tentacle was ten yards away, closing in, as if sensing warm blood.

Blade jammed his left elbow trying to absorb the force of the fall and protect the infant. The boy’s knees dug into Blade’s stomach, and Blade’s vision whirled and danced, his midriff lanced with intense agony.

Blade tried to rise, to keep moving, but he couldn’t seem to catch his breath and his limbs felt like mush.

“Blade!” came from Jenny.

Jenny. He wanted to go out thinking about her, his first and only love, sweethearts since they were ten. Jenny. His precious beloved.

Strong arms abruptly gripped him by the armpits and hauled him to his feet.

“You sure pick the damnedest times to take your naps, pard.”

Hickok and Geronimo were literally carrying him, propelling him towards C Block.

“Hold your breath,” Geronimo advised. “It’s too close!”

Blade felt life returning to his legs and he pumped them, doing his best to keep up.

“Mommy!”

Nightingale came out to meet him, grabbing Mark, hastening for the doorway.

Jenny waited for Blade and moved in, taking Hickok’s place, supporting her man. “Hang in there,” she encouraged him.

They reached the trap door. Nightingale and Mark went down the steps first. Jenny followed. Hickok and Geronimo assisted Blade in descending to the underground chamber.

“You ever consider going on a diet?” Hickok asked Blade.

Blade was too tired to respond. He heard the trap door clang shut and knew they were, for the moment at least, safe.

“Is he okay?” Jenny was asking.

Blade tried to focus, but his vision spun, dizziness overcoming his mind.

He wanted to thank them for saving him, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open and his mind alert.

“Did he inhale the vapor?” someone was inquiring.

That was all he remembered.