David Robbins: Madman Run

“Forget it, dimwit.”

“What harm can calling me by my new name do, yoyo?”

“Technically you don’t have a new name until after the ceremony, and I aim to abide by the rules until then.”

“Suit yourself, Nathan,” the stocky teen said, using the name bestowed on the gunman by his parents, and walked off.

“Of all the childish antics,” Hickok protested. He swung toward the giant. “What do you say?”

“I say we humor him. If he wants to be called Geronimo, it’s fine with me.”

“Some attitude for a future Leader.”

“If you keep bringing that up, you won’t have a future,” Blade chided and followed Geronimo.

Hickok trailed after them, still reloading. “Well, don’t expect me to break the rules. As far as I’m concerned, Lone Elk is Lone Elk until the Naming is over.”

“Do whatever you think is best,” Blade said.

“Besides, I still figure he’d make a better Percival.”

They traveled another mile and neared a hill with a bald crown. A hawk soared on the air currents to their right, and a pair of deer fled at their approach.

“I sure do like the outdoors,” Hickok remarked, his thumbs hooked in his gunbelt. “Don’t you, Lone Elk?”

There was no answer.

“You’re serious about not talkin’ to me, aren’t you?” Hickok inquired.

There was still no answer.

“Fine. Suit yourself. See if I ever speak to you again.”

Blade grinned and stared at the crest. It would be a good spot to take a break and decide whether to continue or turn back. The heat was getting to him, and he wouldn’t mind heading for the Home with their goal unaccomplished. Once back, he could take a refreshing dip in the moat.

Minutes later they stepped from the trees and halted just below the rim.

“Let’s rest a bit,” Blade proposed.

“Sure, fearless Leader, whatever you want,” Hickok said, sitting down on a log. He studiously refrained from gazing at Geronimo.

“I’d like to take a vote. Do we head on or head home?” Blade asked them.

“It makes no difference to me,” Geronimo said.

“I couldn’t care less,” Hickok added.

“So the decision is mine,” Blade declared and moved toward the top of the hill for a view of the country beyond. If there was no sign of the castle, he’d return to the compound. Perhaps, after consulting the Founder’s diary once more and pinpointing the exact location, he might try to find it again one day—on a cooler day.

“Hey!” Geronimo suddenly yelled. “What’s that?”

Blade spun and saw his friend pointing skyward. He tilted his neck and spied something flying far overhead. At first he thought it was a hawk, until the glint of sunlight off a metallic surface demonstrated otherwise.

“It’s not a bird,” Hickok stated, rising.

“The thing appears to be made of metal,” Geronimo mentioned.

Stunned, Blade watched the object perform a tight circle hundreds of feet above them. Could it be an airplane? he wondered. Thinking of all the books dealing with aviation in the Family library and all the plane photographs he’d admired, he decided the object was far too small to be an aircraft.

“I hear a strange buzzing,” Geronimo announced.

Blade heard the sound, too, as if a million angry hornets were in flight en masse, and his brow knit in bewilderment. “Maybe we should try to shoot it down,” Hickok suggested.

“Why? It’s not trying to harm us,” Blade replied. “Unless it attacks, we leave it alone.”

“Yes, sir .”

The alien device swooped lower, revealing its shape.

With a start, Blade realized he’d been wrong. He distinguished a set of long, thin wings and the unmistakable contours of a tail assembly; he realized it was a plane, but the smallest one he’d ever seen. One of the books he’d read came to mind, a volume detailing how to construct and operate tiny aircraft known as model planes. If he wasn’t mistaken, the thing in the sky was a model plane. But it couldn’t be.

“It looks like a baby plane,” Hickok noted, apparently having the same train of thought as Blade.

“Such things don’t exist any more,” Geronimo said.

“Peepers don’t lie,” Hickok stated.

Buzzing even louder, the diminutive aircraft angled to the southeast and flew off.

Eager to see where it went, Blade hastened to the top of the hill and stared after it. His gaze strayed to the valley below and every fiber of his being tingled at the sight of the structures less than half a mile off.

“Bingo,” he said. “We’ve hit the jackpot.”

Hickok and Geronimo were on the crest in seconds.

“It’s the castle!” the gunman exclaimed.

“Or what’s left of it,” Geronimo amended.

From a distance, the castle appeared to be in a severe state of disrepair.

Windows were missing. One of the four turrents was damaged. Vines grew in profusion up the slate gray walls. A flock of starlings was flying above it, bearing eastward.

“I vote we check the place out,” Blade said.

“Count me in,” Geronimo agreed.

Hickok nodded. “I’ve always wanted to see a real castle.”

The three of them hastened down the far side of the hill into yet more forest, revitalized by their discovery.

Blade took the point, selecting the easiest route, bypassing the thickest brush and skirting clusters of large boulders. After traversing 50 feet, he looked at the ground and halted in astonishment.

Hickok almost bumped into the giant. “What the heck did you stop for?”

“This,” Blade said, indicating a well-worn trail leading deeper into the valley. The path wound past them to the northwest.

“So you found a game trail. Big deal.”

“Take a closer look,” Blade advised.

The gunfighter squatted and peered at a strip of bare earth, his eyes widening when he recognized the distinct impression of a shoe. “Someone has used this trail recently.”

“Within the past day or two,” Geronimo said.

“Stay alert,” Blade instructed them. They followed the path until they arrived at the border of a spacious meadow. Blade stopped short again, shocked by the unexpected.

Corn, wheat, oats and other crops covered the eastern half of the meadow, aligned in separate plots. From the hill, the meadow had been partly obscured by the trees, and the crops tended to blend into the surrounding vegetation. No one would ever suspect the land had been tilled unless they came right up on it.

“Someone lives in this valley,” Hickok said.

“In the castle,” Geronimo speculated.

“There’s enough there to feed a hundred people,” Blade noted. “Maybe we’ve stumbled on a pocket of survivors.”

“Let’s hope they’re friendly,” Hickok stated. Blade led them across the meadow. Halfway to the other side ther trail broadened, becoming a grassy road. Ruts formed by heavy wagon wheels lined the soil, and there were many more footprints in the intermittent bare spots. Except these prints were of naked feet.

“What do you make of it, pard?” Hickok asked when they halted to examine the tracks.

“Beats me,” Blade said. He glanced at Geronimo, who was kneeling and lightly touching the impressions. “You’re the tracking expert. What can you tell us?”

“It’s hard to determine precise numbers because so many have passed by, but I’d guess that ten to twenty people use this road on a regular basis, at least once a day. And the freshest wagon ruts were made this morning.”

“This morning?” Blade repeated, scanning the meadow. “Then they must still be close by.” He had the oddest feeling that the three of them were being watched, but by whom was anyone’s guess.

“We’d be smart to take cover,” Hickok suggested.