The Fox Run

Chapter Five

After his conversation with Plato, Blade located Geronimo and Hickok in the crowd and led them to Block A, the Family armory.

“Hickok, you’re our firearms specialist. Any suggestions on what we should take?” Blade asked.

The gunman surveyed the huge chamber, the walls lined with rack after rack of assorted weaponry, rifles and shotguns, pistols and revolvers.

Crates of ammunition were piled up to the roof. Kurt Carpenter had known his precious Family would become engaged in a desperate struggle for existence after the nuclear holocaust, and he had prudently recognized that their ability to defend themselves, to persevere in a world where survival of the fittest was the norm, would be predicated on the firepower they possessed. Unlike food and medicine and even clothing, weapons, if kept sheltered from the elements, would endure the test of time and last generation after generation. Carpenter had selected arms of every sort, stockpiled ammo, and provided the equipment for gun repair and cartridge reloading.

“There’s no telling what we’ll go up against,” Hickok said thoughtfully.

“And we can’t afford to come up short where it counts.” He walked over to a rack of automatics, the guns neatly arranged and freshly oiled and cleaned, although seldom used. Utilizing the automatics to hunt game would be a case of drastic overkill, and was frowned upon. There was a colossal collection of rifles and shotguns suitable for hunting and most other Family purposes. The automatics were reserved for special occasions.

“Let’s see,” Hickok studied the rack, running through the hardware.

“The AP-74, the FNC, the AR-180, the 27 A-1, the Uzi, and…” He reached for one of the guns. “Ahhh. Here it is. Should do nicely.”

“Which one did you pick?” Blade inquired, his view blocked by Hickok’s right shoulder.

Hickok swiveled, displaying his first choice. “This is a Commando Arms Carbine, fully automatic or semi-automatic capability, weight about eight pounds or so.” Hickok hefted the Carbine. “And about three feet in length. Uses 45-caliber ammo. This magazine holds ninety shots. A neat piece of firepower, if I do say so myself.” Hickok grinned, appreciating the weapon.

“Reminds me of one of those machine guns used back in what were called the Roaring Twenties,” Geronimo commented.

“A Thompson?” Hickok nodded. “Guess it does at that, pard, but we do have a Thompson reproduction around here, somewhere.” He began searching the racks.

“Who gets this Carbine?” Blade wanted to know. As if he had to ask.

Hickok tossed him the gun. “Three guesses. You’re the worst shot, so you should have the automatic. This way, if we’re attacked, just point it in the general direction of the attacker and press the trigger and keep it pulled.

You’re bound to hit something.”

Geronimo laughed.

“Thanks a lot,” Blade said to Hickok.

“Hey, pard, don’t blame yourself,” Hickok stated matter-of-factly. “We’ve each got special skills. I wouldn’t want to tangle with you one-on-one with knives, that’s for sure.”

“What about me?” Geronimo asked.

Hickok walked to another rack. “Way I figure it, we need to diversify our armament, try to accommodate as many possibilities as we can. We’ve got our automatic, so I think we should pick a shotgun next.”

“Why?” Geronimo questioned.

“For a combination of power and accuracy,” Hickok answered. “At close to medium range, a shotgun can tear apart anything that comes at you.

Here’s the one I want.” He picked one gun from the shotgun rack. “This is a Browning B-80 Automatic Shotgun. Twelve gauge, thirty-two inches long, about seven pounds. Easy to handle.”

“I haven’t used a shotgun too often,” Geronimo observed.

“Here, pard.” Hickok handed the Browning to Geronimo. “Don’t worry about it. You’re a good shot, and we’ll need the stopping power. We’ll use buckshot, double aught.”

“What’s that leave you?” Blade inquired, facing the rifle racks.

“You got it.” Hickok stepped in front of one case. “We’ll need a long gun for distance shooting.” He grabbed one of the rifles. “A Navy Arms Henry Carbine, 44-40 caliber. The accuracy you can achieve with this rifle is amazing. I prefer the lever action over a bolt job. Levers keep your fingers closer to the trigger, where they belong. This Henry is a reproduction of a gun that was used back in Wild Bill Hickok’s time.”

“I should have guessed,” Geronimo said.

Hickok ignored his friend. “Now to our handguns. I’ll stick with my Pythons. For you, Blade…” Hickok walked to one of a dozen cabinets containing the Family’s pistols and revolvers. He leaned his Henry against the wall and opened the cabinet. “This should do you just right.”

Blade recognized the style of gun. “Another automatic?”

“One of us should carry one. Or two. I reckon you’ll be keeping those Bowies at your hips?”

Blade nodded his head.

Hickok sighed. “Never could understand what you see in those big knives. No problem, though. You can wear two of these in shoulder holsters.”

“What are they?” Blade took one of the handguns from Hickok.

“It’s a Vega 45 Automatic, and it’s a lot like the Colt Automatic.”

“I’m surprised you don’t recommend the Colt,” Geronimo said.

“I’ve got mine.” Hickok patted his Pythons. “And I don’t want to be accused of bias. Besides, the Vegas have never been used and we have plenty of ammo. Do you like the stainless steel and checkered walnut?”

“It’s a pretty gun,” Blade admitted.

“Pretty?” Hickok snorted. “Women are pretty! Guns are a work of art!

When I look at a fine firearm, it’s like I’m looking at a Michelangelo or a Van Gogh.”

“And you were the one who called Joshua strange?” Geronimo was grinning from ear to ear. “You don’t have room to talk.”

“You know what I mean,” Hickok retorted.

“Okay,” Blade interjected. “I’ll carry two of these Vega Automatics in shoulder holsters.”

“Leaving me,” Geronimo stated. “I’d prefer something a bit more basic.”

“Let’s see,” Hickok said slowly, studying the cabinets and racks. “We’ve already got stoppin’ power, and we’ve got the Vega for Tarzan, which means we need something combining accuracy with versatility. Ever use an Arminius?” he asked Geronimo.

“No.”

“Real basic, like you want.” Hickok selected the revolver he was referring to. “We have two models, one in .357 Magnum, the other a .38 Special.

How many handguns you plan on packing?”

“One.”

Hickok shook his head. “Up to you, but you’d be smarter to take two.

What if it malfunctions?”

“I’ll still have the Browning,” Geronimo said. “Besides, you’re taking two Colts and Blade is taking along two Vegas. Mine will make five handguns the Family might never see again. I know we have plenty of guns, but why take more than we’ll really need? I’m taking other weapons for close range, so just one Arminius will do for me.”

“The .38 or the .357?” Hickok asked.

“The .357 Magnum,” Geronimo responded.

“There’s still hope for you yet, red man.” Hickok smiled.

“Which is more than I can say for you, white boy,” Geronimo rejoined.

Hickok handed the .357 Arminius to Geronimo. “That’s it for me. Pick whatever other weapons you want to take.”

They separated, walking to different sections, each preferring weapons from their particular specialty.

Hickok stood in front of the cabinet containing the small handguns, the derringers and other palm guns. He studied the selection and finally picked two. First, to wear strapped to his right wrist, he withdrew a Mitchell’s Derringer, a two-shot gun only five inches in length. The Mitchell’s used .38-caliber ammunition. He also grabbed a handgun to strap to his left leg, about three inches above the ankle. This gun was a four-shot C.O.P. .357 Magnum, five and a half inches long, double-action, with four barrels constructed of stainless steel. This baby, he reflected, would blow away anything at close range. It made for a dandy surprise package.

Blade eyed the section of the north wall containing the edged weapons, the swords, knives, stilettos, shivs, and others. He would take the two Bowies, and for a backup he chose two daggers, a matched pair, with razor-sharp blades and silver handles. One would be sheathed on his left forearm, the other to his right calf. A folding Buck knife, placed in his right pants pocket, completed his personal arsenal.

Geronimo was standing in front of a rack marked “Miscellaneous,” filled with an incredible array of unusual and varied weaponry. Most of it was Oriental: an ancient naginata and the later yari, both spears, the former with a curved blade, the latter employing a straight cutting edge; a pair of ton-fa; a bo, or hardwood staff; six pair of nunchaku, each consisting of two lengths of wood connected by chain or cord; and several sai. The rack also contained a section labeled “Early North American,” and it was this part that arrested Geronimo’s attention. Several Indian spears were secured in slotted grooves in the wood supporting the rack. Under the spears, positioned with the blades facing one another, patterned after an original Apache design but actually made in the 1900s, hung a pair of matching tomahawks, the versatile light axe used by many of the North American Indians. They were the only tomahawks the Family owned, although they did possess dozens of axes and hatchets. Ordinarily, Geronimo employed a hatchet in his daily activities, but this expedition to the Twin Cities was a special occasion, calling for a suspension of his reluctance to use the tomahawks. They were special, one of the few physical ties to a culture long gone, a way of life and a people Geronimo admired and revered and a time in which he fervently wished he had lived.

Geronimo was the only Family member with any vestige of Indian heritage in his blood, and even that was minimal. His parents had died when he was quite young, before they could give him a brother or a sister.

Geronimo, so far as he knew, was the last of the Indians, a condition he seldom talked about but acutely felt. He considered himself something of an outcast, the last of a noble breed, and different from the rest of the Family. He harbored a profound sense of obligation to his unknown Indian ancestors, a duty he feared would remain unfulfilled. If he was the last Indian, and he was unable to find a suitable mate, then the line of the exalted red man would perish with his death. The prospect terrified him.

But if I am to die on this mission, he thought, then I will greet the Great Spirit bearing the trademark of my forefathers.

Geronimo removed the tomahawks and hefted the handles in his hands.

A perfect balance! He slipped the handles through his belt, one on each hip. He would carry the Arminius in a shoulder holster under his right arm.

“I’m ready,” Hickok announced from the doorway to the Cell Block.

Geronimo moved to join him, passing Blade. “Problems?” he asked.

Blade was staring at a case of knives, his chin resting on the knuckles of his left hand. “No, not really,” he answered. “I thought I had made up my mind about what I’m taking, but now I think I’ll add one more item.”

Geronimo saw the contents of the case. “Throwing knives?”

“You never know,” Blade observed. He opened the case and extracted a black sheath containing three quality Soligen throwing knives. “I can attach the sheath to my belt in the small of my back. Hickok says you can never have enough backup.”

“Wouldn’t it be ironic,” Geronimo realized, “if we take all this hardware, and we do encounter some people, and they turn out to be as friendly and spiritual as our brother Joshua?”

“Ironic, yes,” Blade agreed. “Realistic, no. If anyone else has survived, they’re existing on an animal level of existence. Thank the Founder for the Home! Where would we be without the security the walls provide, and how long would the Family have lasted without the provisions the Founder stored? We’d be living in caves and fighting the mutates with clubs.”

They were slowly walking towards Hickok.

“I wonder how they will react to us,” Geronimo mused, and Blade knew he was referring to any survivors of the Big Blast, living and foraging in a world devoid of luxury and scantily supplied with the basic necessities.

Hickok suddenly made a show of clearing his throat. “Why don’t Geronimo and I mosey on over to F Block and stock up on our victuals? You can catch up with us later, pard.”

Blade wondered what on earth he was talking about, and then Jenny appeared in the doorway.

“Howdy, ma’am,” Hickok said. “Nice day if it don’t rain.”

Jenny ignored him, her eyes locked on Blade.

“I’ll see you in a bit,” Blade said to his friends.

“If you can’t find us,” Hickok cracked, “check the south forty. We might be roundin’ up some critters for brandin’.”

Geronimo took Hickok by the right arm and forcefully propelled him from the Block. He smiled and nodded at Jenny, then followed the gunman, wondering where Hickok’s own girlfriend was.

“We’re finally alone,” Jenny said, stating the obvious.

Blade nodded. There was a large oak table in his immediate left. He pivoted and placed the weapons he would take on top of the table.

“We need to talk,” Jenny said.

“I know.”

“If all goes well, I expect you’ll be leaving sometime tomorrow,” Jenny mentioned.

“I know,” he replied.

“And there is a good chance I might never see you again.” Her lovely green eyes were watering.

Blade couldn’t bring himself to respond.

“Oh, Blade!” She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. “I can’t stand the thought of losing you! I’ll die if something happens to you!”

“Nothing will happen,” he said confidently.

“You can’t be certain of that,” she said softly, beginning to sob.

A warm, moist tear streaked a path down Blade’s neck, followed by several more.

“It will be all right,” he assured her, hugging her to him, stroking her blonde hair with his right hand.

Jenny released her pent-up emotions, the tears flowing freely, crying on his broad shoulder.

Blade patiently waited for her outburst to pass. There wasn’t a thing he could say to ease her hurt. Worse, he felt the same way. He forced himself to remain calm, to conceal the grief. If he broke down, it would only compound her misery.

There was a commotion outside, voices raised excitedly, from the direction of the digging.

Jenny cried until her tear glands were dry, her eyes red and puffy, her nose running. Finally, her weeping ceased. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into his ear.

“For what?” he asked. Blade glanced around the chamber for any material she could use. Nothing appropriate. He gently pushed back until he was clear of her encircling arms and removed his shirt. “Use this.” He handed it to her.

Jenny didn’t argue. She wiped around her swollen eyes, and dried her cheeks and nose. “Thanks. I needed that.”

Blade tossed the shirt onto the table. He embraced her again, savoring the closeness of her pliant body, the warmth she generated.

“I can’t help myself,” she explained. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to go, either,” he admitted.

“Then why…?” She stood back, puzzled.

Blade clasped her to him. He couldn’t bear to look into her eyes, afraid he would lose control. “You heard Plato. Someone must go, and Alpha Triad has as good a chance as any of the others. I don’t want to leave you, honey, but the Family’s welfare must come first. You know that.”

Jenny silently nodded her understanding. She took a deep breath. “Take me with you, Blade. Please.”

“I can’t.”

“Please!” she pleaded.

Blade drew her to the table and she leaned against the edge, staring up into his face, her expression appealing. Give me strength, he prayed to the Spirit.

“I can’t take you with me,” he stressed, his deep voice turning husky with sentiment. “Much as I want to.” He placed a finger over her red lips to prevent her from interrupting when she started to speak. He had to finish, to get it all out in the open before he weakened and she saw how affected he really was. “If I took you along, I’d be constantly concerned for your safety. I’d worry about you first whenever danger threatened. It wouldn’t matter if only my safety was involved, but we must think of Hickok and Geronimo and Joshua. I have an obligation to them, a duty, a responsibility to perform at my peak, to mesh with them as one member of a well-trained team. If I permit myself to become distracted, my attention to waver during crucial moments, I could endanger all of them and cause their deaths. We can’t allow that to happen. You can understand, can’t you?”

Jenny looked down at the floor, and Blade wondered if she would cry again. He couldn’t blame her.

“Can’t you?” he repeated.

Jenny nodded. She wiped another tear from her left eye.

Blade placed his hands on her shoulder, “Dearest, if there was any way possible to take you along, I would. You’ll be safer in the Home with the Family. I’ll be able to completely concentrate on the matters at hand. It won’t be easy, being separated. Who knows for how long it will be? But be assured, I will return. We’ll all come back. It will be harder on you, I think.

The waiting, with little to occupy you. The bottom line is, we have no other choice. Try and look at the bright side.”

“The bright side! What bright side?” she demanded skeptically, brushing her blonde bangs from her eyes with her left hand.

“When I return,” Blade said, smiling, his eyes conveying the warmth of his tender affection, “I intend to ask a certain lovely lady to bind to me, to become my eternal mate. If she’ll have me,” he amended hastily.

Jenny’s eyes widened and brightened. She gripped his arms. “Do you mean it, really and truly?” she asked excitedly.

“Really and truly,” he affirmed. “Truly and really.”

“Oh, Blade!” She laughed and clung to him, trembling.

“Are you okay?” he asked, overjoyed he had managed to cheer her up.

“Couldn’t be better!” Jenny grinned and kissed him, hard, on the lips.

“To marry, to be man and wife! I can hardly wait!”

“You mean you still want me, after learning about all of my quirks?”

“Silly. Your quirks are your more loveable aspects. Oh, darling!”

They embraced in a long, lingering kiss. Blade felt the pressure of her full breasts against his chest, and his manhood, aroused, strained against her.

“Mmmm. Nice. I hope you know that tonight you are all mine,” Jenny stated.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he agreed. “But right now I’d better join Geronimo and Hickok and assist them in stocking our supplies for the trip.”

“I’ll walk with you to F Block.” she remarked.

Blade picked up his weapons, one at a time, strapping the knives to his body as he’d planned. The Commando was equipped with a brown leather shoulder strap, and he slung the automatic over his right shoulder.

Jenny watched him, apprehensively.

Blade took her proffered hand and they walked from A Block and headed in a northeasterly direction, toward F Block.

“You’re armed to the teeth, aren’t you?” she casually asked.

“Eleven weapons, in all,” he answered. “If they get me, it won’t be without a fight.” Instantly, he noted her eyes watering, and he regretted making the stupid statement.

“What all are you taking?” she kept the conversation going, her voice level.

“The Commando.” He touched the carbine. “Two Vega automatics, one under each arm. My Bowies, of course. The three throwing knives on my back, a dagger on my right leg and another on my left arm, and a Buck knife in one of my pockets.”

“You sure that’s enough?”

He looked at her, thinking she was joking, but she was quite serious. “I think it’s enough.”

Jenny became silent, thoughtful, and they continued walking, covering half the distance to F Block, nearing a small stand of oak trees to their right. Blade glanced at the growth and was surprised to note someone sitting at the base of one of the trees, leaning with his back against the trunk.

“Isn’t that Joshua?” Jenny saw him too.

Blade realized it was. Joshua was sitting in the lotus position, his eyes closed, apparently meditating.

“I don’t think we should disturb him,” Jenny said.

“I agree.”

They were abreast of the trees now, and Blade’s attention was arrested by movement in the tree above Joshua.

“Did you see that?” he asked.

“What?”

Something small, with reddish brown fur, was moving along a limb directly over Joshua’s head.

“I see it,” Jenny declared. “Looks like a squirrel.”

Blade thought so too, but he was bothered by the movement. If it was a squirrel, the motions it was making were erratic, different from normal.

Was his imagination playing tricks on him, or was there some unusual element about this animal? Squirrels and other small game were not uncommon in the Home. They couldn’t pose any threat unless they became rabid or…

The squirrel paused on the end of one branch, exposed, the sun revealing the reason it was moving oddly.

Blade heard Jenny’s sudden intake of breath as he reached for the Vegas in a cross draw, thanking the Spirit he had left his shirt in A Block, that there was no chance the guns could snag on any fabric.

“Joshua!” Jenny screamed in warning, and Joshua’s eyes opened.

Blade was running, closing the range. He wasn’t Hickok. He needed to be sure. “Move!” he shouted.

“Roll to your right, now!”

Joshua obeyed immediately, the roll saving his life.

The squirrel chattered and launched itself from the limb, narrowly missing Joshua’s leg. It landed agilely on the grass and whirled, facing Joshua.

Joshua saw the menace and he braced for the next attack.

Blade couldn’t wait any longer. He raised the right Vega and fired three times, trying to aim as he ran.

The shots missed.

The squirrel, distracted by a spray of dirt from one of the bullets, spun, spotted Blade, and charged.

Blade tried three shots from the left Vega. The small red squirrel, a male only eleven inches in length, could cover the ground at tremendous speed.

One of the shots nicked it on the right side and it twisted, but didn’t slow, pus spraying into the air.

“Blade!” Jenny yelled.

Frustrated by his lack of marksmanship, Blade tossed the Vegas to one side and drew his right-hand Bowie.

The red came in low and fast, fearless, intent on biting and rending.

Blade crouched, knowing he had one chance, realizing the rodent would be on him if he missed.

The red was four feet from Blade when it sprang, launching its body at his midsection.

Blade swung, the Bowie arcing, the blade connecting, catching the red at the neck, slicing off the deformed head.

“You got it!” Jenny exclaimed.

Blade watched the headless body flop on the grass, blood and pus forming a pool around it. He repressed an urge to continue hacking the body, to chop it into tiny little pieces. How he hated the mutates!!! Every damn one of them had to be exterminated! After all, one of them had killed his father.

“What’s going on, pard?”

Hickok and Geronimo ran up, guns at the ready. Joshua joined the group.

“Blade got a mutate,” Jenny explained proudly.

They saw it. Geronimo knelt and carefully, visually, inspected the body and the head.

“A squirrel!” Hickok stated in sheer disgust. “There’s no telling what shape and size these things come in. Remember that time a mutated frog hopped up from the moat and attacked some of the Family? A frog!

Mutates can be anything.”

“I’ve never seen a mutated insect or bird,” Geronimo observed. “Only animals and reptiles and amphibians.”

“That must be important,” Jenny stressed.

Joshua placed his right hand on Blade’s shoulder. “Thank you, my brother, for the rescue. I am not yet ready for the trip to the other side.”

Blade was glaring at the remains of the mutate.

“Are you all right?” Joshua asked.

Blade grimly nodded.

“I see you bagged the critter with your Bowie.” Hickok grinned. “Didn’t you hear shots? Ten or twenty?”

“Blade fired six times,” Jenny detailed.

“And missed?” Hickok asked, feigning amazement. “Maybe, instead of the Vegas, you should take a flame thrower.” He paused, snapped his finger, and playfully poked Blade in the side. “Too bad the Family doesn’t own a flame thrower, isn’t it? Then you’d really be cookin’!”

Despite his revulsion and resentment at the mutate, Blade allowed himself to relax.

“Better yet,” Hickok quipped, “a tank! That way, if you missed with the cannon, you could still run it over and crush it to a pulp.”

“Will you lay off him?” Geronimo stood. “He creased the thing once. A squirrel isn’t the easiest of targets, not even for you.”

“I’ll lay off when he gives me some sign he’s still the same adorable hombre we’ve come to know and appreciate as loco.”

“One more crack from you,” Blade said, smiling, “and this loco is going to see if you’d like having pearl handles for your supper.”

Hickok laughed. “Now that that’s settled, shouldn’t someone go tell the Family everything is fine? They had to hear the shots.”

“I’ll go,” Joshua volunteered, and jogged towards the digging site.

“I should bury the remains,” Geronimo said. “I’ll get a shovel and be right back.” He departed.

“We’ve got most of the food packed,” Hickok informed Blade. “Come and check it when you want.” He strolled off.

“I can’t get over the way he constantly picks on you,” Jenny said, criticizing Hickok. “Why in the world does he do it?”

“Because he cares,” Blade answered.

“You call that caring?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Nathan has a funny way of showing he cares for someone. He’s always riding you.” Jenny wouldn’t let the matter rest.

Blade retrieved the Vega automatics. “Jenny, he doesn’t ride me any worse than he rides himself. You’ve got to understand that Hickok has trouble relating to people. He likes to get his guns do his talking, and you can only do that with your enemies. He’s uncomfortable around his friends because he has difficulty showing he cares, and he tries to mask his genuine feelings behind a flippant attitude and wisecracks. Believe me, Hickok would give his life, gladly, for any member of the Family. That’s one of the reasons he makes such an outstanding Warrior.”

“If you say so,” Jenny said, her tone implying she had her doubts. “I just can’t understand what Joan sees in him.”

“Ask her,” Blade advised, scouring the trees, searching for any sign of life, wondering if other mutates were lurking in the foliage. Highly unlikely. Mutates never stopped hunting, never ceased seeking flesh to consume. If any were still in the trees, they would be coming after the humans as precipitously as the red squirrel had done.

“Hickok mentioned the frog that attacked us.” Jenny was staring at the dead squirrel. “If memory serves, that was about eighteen months ago. Right?”

“Right,” Blade agreed.

“We know the frog clambered out of the moat,” Jenny continued her line of reasoning. “How do you suppose this squirrel got in here?”

“I wish I knew.”

Jenny gazed at the distant walls. “Do you think it could get over the walls? Could there be enough for its claws to grip?”

“I don’t know.” Blade had seen squirrels perform remarkable climbing feats, including running straight up the trunk of tall trees. The walls protecting the Home were constructed of brick, the joints even and the mortar smooth. How could a squirrel get inside the Home?

“I don’t believe the mutate came over the walls.” Geronimo was back, bearing a shovel, and he had overheard the last part of their conversation.

“You don’t?” Jenny asked.

“Look at the mutate,” Geronimo directed. “Very closely.”

Blade crouched and studied the squirrel, and only then did he notice that this mutate was unique, different from any other mutate he had ever seen. “It’s half and half,” he observed.

“I saw the difference earlier,” Geronimo said.

The red squirrel was a mutate, but not a complete mutate. Only the right side, the paws, the spine, and the left side of the rodent were deformed, oozing pus, covered with sores and dry brown skin. The rest of the red was your typical squirrel, covered with normal reddish brown fur.

“I’ve never heard of one like that,” Jenny remarked.

“Neither have I.” Blade stood. “We should inform Plato about this.”

Joshua came jogging up to them. “Plato wants everyone at the digging site. They are ready to open a chamber they’ve uncovered,” he announced.

“We can’t leave this lying here in the open,” Blade said, pointing out the obvious.

“Some of the children might stumble across it.” Jenny underlined his meaning.

“I’ll bury the mutate,” Geronimo offered. “We can advise Plato about it after this mystery chamber is opened.”

“Want us to wait for you?” Blade asked him.

Geronimo shook his head. “It won’t take long. You’d better be on hand when Plato unveils his secret.”

Jenny took Blade’s hand. “First, we’ll stop and grab you a shirt.”

Joshua was already returning to the pit.

Jenny was eager to reach the uncovered chamber, and she hurried, pulling Blade along.

Blade smiled back at Geronimo.

Geronimo grinned and bent to the task of burying the mutate.

Blade put the red squirrel from his mind for the time being, speculating on the chamber they were about to open. Was he right? Was it some kind of vehicle the Founder had buried for a special purpose? If so, and if Plato was aware of it, why hadn’t he informed any other Family members?

Possibly, Blade reflected, Plato was afraid some of the Family might be tempted to use whatever it was before it was really needed.

Jenny cast a backward glance at Geronimo and the squirrel. “I just hope there aren’t any more mutates in the Home,” she said.

Blade gritted his teeth at the idea. You and me both, he thought to himself, then repeated it out loud for her benefit. “You and me both.”

How he hated the damn things!