David Robbins: Spartan Run

Teucer laughed. “You’ve been hanging around Hickok too much. Now you’re beginning to sound like him.”

The small man looked at Blade. “I trust you had a good reason for bringing him along?” he asked dryly.

“Teucer is one of the few Warriors who hasn’t been on a regular run yet. This trip will be an invaluable training experience, a chance to hone his skills.”

“Just so he hones his tact.”

Blade stared at the diminutive martial artist for a moment, then concentrated on his driving. He’d never seen Rikki-Tikki-Tavi so tense before, and he realized how much the trip must mean to the Family’s perfected swordmaster. He thought of the 30-acre compound located in the extreme northwest corner of the state once known as Minnesota, the walled retreat constructed by the wealthy survivalist just prior to the nuclear holocaust and dubbed the Home. He also thought about the descendant of the Founder and his companions, the friends and loved ones Blade knew as the Family, and in particular he dwelled on his wife and young son, Jenny and Gabe. A twinge of guilt gnawed at his conscience for leaving them yet again to venture into the hostile Outlands, the vast regions not under the jurisdiction of any organized faction.

But how could he have turned Rikki down?

As one of the martial artist’s best friends, and as the one Warrior who had gone into the Outlands time and time again and knew the savage domains better than anyone, he could hardly refuse to help.

And there was another reason, out of the 18 Family members selected to be Warriors, to defend the Home and protect the Family, Blade was the leader. He had a responsibility to those under him. Plus there was the fact Rikki would have gone by himself if no one else went along, and even the highly seasoned Warriors found surviving in the Outlands a strenuous task. What with scavengers, the crazies, mutations, and assorted cutthroats roaming all over the countryside, a sole Warrior could easily be slain.

Blade didn’t want to lose Rikki.

He recalled the recent death of another Warrior, a novice named Marcus, who had perished in the Outlands while on a rescue mission, and he inwardly vowed that none of them would die on this run.

“Where exactly are we?” Teucer inquired.

“Rikki has the map,” Blade noted, skirting yet another yawning pit in the center of the road. Although the highways were in deplorable condition, having suffered over a century of neglect and abuse by the elements, they were easier than going overland, even for the SEAL.

The Solar-Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational Vehicle had been the brainchild of the Family’s Founder, Kurt Carpenter. He’d wisely foreseen that conventional cars and trucks would become largely obsolete after World War Three; fuel would be scarce and spare parts virtually impossible to obtain. So he’d spent millions to have the SEAL developed by automotive experts who believed they were creating the “recreational vehicle of the future.” Carpenter had never revealed his ulterior motive.

Eventually the experts had produced a remarkable prototype. Green in hue and van-like in configuration, the SEAL incorporated a number of unique features. The body was composed of a special heat-resistant, shatterproof plastic that had been tinted so no one could see inside. The floor was an impervious metal alloy. A powerful air-cooled, self-lubricating engine enabled the transport to attain speeds in excess of one hundred miles per hour. The tires were immense.

Especially unique was the power source: the sun. A pair of solar panels attached to the roof of the SEAL collected the sunlight, and the energy was then converted and stored in a bank of six revolutionary batteries housed in a leadlined case under the vehicle. So long as the solar panels weren’t damaged or the battery casings weren’t cracked, the SEAL would have a constant source of energy.

Kurt Carpenter had taken the innovations a step further. After the prototype was completed, he’d brought the SEAL to other specialists, to mercenaries versed in the art of war, and instructed them to transform the vehicle into an armed dreadnought. This they’d readily, done.

Four toggle switches on the dashboard activated lite armaments. There were two 50-caliber machine guns hidden in recessed compartments mounted on the roof above the driver’s seat with others in reserve. Called Stingers, the missiles were heat-seeking and had a range of ten miles. The mercenaries had also outfitted the SEAL with a flamethrower positioned at the front, behind the fender. When the proper toggle was thrown, a portion of the fender lowered and the flamethrower’s nozzle extended six inches and engaged. Finally, secreted in the center of the front grill was a rocket launcher.

Without the SEAL, Blade reflected, the Family would never have been able to send the Warriors out from time to time to make contact with other outposts of civilization.

Like they were doing now.

“We’re in northeastern Iowa,” Rikki stated, the map spread open on his lap. “The road we’re on is State Highway 76.” He gazed out his open window at the rugged terrain. “This region was the least inhabited part of the state. They called it the Switzerland of America because of all the hills and cliffs. East of us is the Mississippi River, twenty or thirty miles away at the most. West of this region is prime farming land. Three glaciers, leveled that area ages ago and left fertile topsoil in their wake.”

“Been doing some studying, I take it?” Teucer remarked.

Rikki nodded. “Once the Cavalry told us about the man they found and relayed his tale, I decided to do some research.”

Blade listened attentively. He’d also conducted background research after being contacted by the leader of the Cavalry, Kilrane. Occupying the Dakota Territory, which embraced the former states of North and South Dakota, the Cavalry was one of six factions allied with the Family in the Freedom Federation. They lived much as did their frontier ancestors, and they were renowned for their superlative horsemanship.

“Are there any towns nearby?” Teucer asked.

“A few. Not far ahead we should find a secondary road that leads to the small town of Dorchester. If we go straight, in six or seven miles we should come to the Upper Iowa River.”

“But there’s no mention on the map of a town named Sparta?” Teucer asked.

“No,” Rikki answered, and sighed.

“Maybe your wife is right,” Teucer said. “This is a wild goose chase.”

“Perhaps.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

Rikki twisted in his seat to stare at the bowman. “Be my guest.”

“Why is this so important to you? What does it matter to you if a new Sparta has arisen?”

Blade waited expectantly for the martial artist’s answer. When the message from Kilrane had arrived at the Home, he’d been surprised at Rikki’s reaction. The normally cool-headed Warrior had been all set to take off immediately to ascertain the truth. Blade suspected Rikki’s enthusiasm had something to do with the time they’d been in Memphis.

Rikki had mentioned meeting a man who claimed to be from Sparta, a new city-state that had arisen since the war, but he’d never disclosed the details of that meeting.

“I made a promise to a dying man once,” Rikki said. “And I intend to keep that promise.”

“Mind if I ask who?”

“A man who went by the same of Thayer, a former Spartan who was exiled for abandoning his post.”

“Where’d you meet this guy?”

“In Memphis.”

“How’d he die?”

“I killed him.”

“Oh.”

Blade looked at Rikki’s inscrutable face, then at the highway. This was news to him. He resolved to get to the truth of the matter at the earlier opportunity. “I hope we do find these Spartans,” Blade mentioned. “We could always use another ally in the Federation.”