David Robbins - Madman Run

Dear Plato:

Hi.

Enclosed is the file you requested. I had to go into the basement to find it. No one has read this particular one in many years, and I was extremely surprised when you asked for it.

Although you are probably as familiar with the facts as I am, I thought it might help to refresh both our memories and provide some background.

All three of them were in their midteens at the time. Blade had just turned 16, according to the records. This was the fourth of their little adventures and the one that affected Blade the most.

As usual, I employed a subjective style instead of an objective narrative. History should be vibrant, not dull.

Knowing you as well as I do, I took the liberty of going through the archives for the other files related to Blade’s travels during the same period. If you desire to see them, I’ll be happy to send them over.

By the way, does Blade know you’re doing this? He doesn’t take kindly to anyone prying into his past without a good reason. I know the files are official records open to every Family member, but it’s a privilege that should not be abused, even by our esteemed leader.

Does this have anything to do with the recent incident involving Blade’s son Gabe and that mutated black bear? If so, I understand your motive. Will you give this to Blade before or after you read it? Heh-heh.

Well, I’ve rambled enough. Stop by and visit me sometime. I get lonely with no one to talk to.

The scorching July sun was perched at its zenith above the northern Minnesota landscape. A slight breeze provided scant relief from the heat, occasionally stirring a leaf in the verdant forest. Birds sang gaily and insects buzzed, indicating there were no predators abroad.

Three youths were hiking to the southeast at a brisk pace, despite the temperature. All three carried backpacks, and all three were armed to the proverbial teeth.

In the lead walked a teenager whose features revealed his Indian ancestry. The blood of the Blackfeet flowed in his veins, and perhaps it was due to his biological inheritance that he had always excelled at hunting and trapping. He wore torn jeans and a faded blue T-shirt that fit his stocky frame snugly. Tucked under his brown leather belt were two tomahawks, one on either hip. He held a Winchester 30-30 in his left hand.

“Whose bright idea was this, anyway?” he asked while swatting a fly the size of his thumb.

“It wasn’t mine, pard,” replied the second youth in line. His hair was blond, and a thin moustache just beginning to take shape on his upper lip was the same color. He wore buckskins that served to accent his alert blue eyes. Strapped around his slim waist were a pair of Colt Python .357 Magnum revolvers sporting pearl handles. “Blame this on Mikey.”

“The new name is Blade, remember?” stated the third member of their party, a giant standing six-feet eight-inches tall and endowed with a herculean physique. A black leather vest and jeans scarcely contained his bulging muscles. Around his waist were two matched Bowie knives, while slung over his left shoulder was a Marlin 45-70. His hair was dark, his eyes a penetrating shade of gray.

“Well, excuse me for living,” the blond gunman said. “I’ve been calling you Mikey since we were knee-high to a grasshopper. Just because you had your Naming last week doesn’t mean I’ll automatically stop.”

“You will if you know what’s good for you,” Blade declared.

The gunman halted and turned. “Was that a threat?”

“It was a promise,” the giant said.

“Oh, brother. Here we go again,” the Indian interjected, looking at the gunman. “Hickok, he’s right and you know it. You don’t like us to call you Nathan any more, so have the decency to call Mikey by his new name.” He grinned broadly.

“I reckon you have a point, Lone Elk,” Hickok said. “Too bad your Naming isn’t for a couple of months yet. Have you picked the one you want?”

“I’ve decided to take the name Geronimo.”

The young gunfighted cackled. “Leave it to you to pick the name of a bloodthirsty Injun. Why couldn’t you select something civilized?”

Lone Elk straightened indignantly. “Like what, for instance?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How about Percival or Barney?”

“If they’re such great names, why didn’t you pick one for yourself?”

“Because I like a handle with class.”

“You know what you can do with your class.”

Hickok pretended to be offended. “Why are you being so touchy? It was the Founder who said a person’s name should reflect their personality. I can’t help it if you’re more the Percival type than a Geronimo.” He glanced at the giant. “What do you think, Mikey?”

“Leave me out of this,” Blade responded. He walked past them and took the lead, refusing to become embroiled in yet another senseless argument over their names. Although the three of them were the best of friends, they still found plenty to bicker about, especially after they’d been hiking for miles through dense woodland in 100 plus degree weather.

Blade was proud of his new name. He’d spent countless hours narrowing down a list of those he liked the most and had finally chosen the one that best described his outlook on life and his preference in weapons. Ever since the age of four or five, he’d entertained a fascination with edged arms of every type, and over the years he’d become extremely proficient in the use of all the knives, swords and daggers in the huge Family armory. So it was only natural for him to take a name that typified his passion.

The way he saw it, he owed a debt of gratitude to the long-deceased Founder of the Home, Kurt Carpenter, the man who had constructed the 30-acre survivalist retreat in northwestern Minnesota shortly before the outbreak of World War III. A wealthy film maker who realized the inevitability of nuclear conflict after the liberal Russian president was deposed by militant hard-liners, Carpenter had spent millions on his pet project. It was he who first dubbed the compound the Home and designated his select band of followers as the Family, and for 92 years they’d survived in a world deranged by radioactive and chemical toxins.

Carpenter had instituted many unique social reforms designed to stabilize the new society, and among them was the ceremony known as the Naming. Because he had worried that subsequent generations would lose sight of their historical roots, he’d encouraged all parents to have their children search through history books and choose the name of any historical personage they admired as their very own, a name they were formally christened with on their 16th birthday. The practice was later changed to allow those undergoing such a special event to select the name from any source they liked or even to adopt one of their own devising, as Blade had done.

The young giant suddenly halted and cocked his head. He belatedly realized that all the birds and insects were quiet, which could only mean trouble. Unslinging his Marlin, he surveyed the forest but saw nothing to arouse alarm.

Hickok and Lone Elk were 20 feet away, still going at it.

Blade shrugged and continued trekking in the direction he hoped to find the castle mentioned in the Founder’s diary. Carpenter had meticulously noted every item of interest in a daily log, and one of those items talked about a mysterious castle belonging to an eccentric recluse who lived 15 miles from the Home. The cryptic reference had aroused Blade’s curiosity, and he’d persuaded his friends to do a little exploring with him to see if the castle still stood.