David Robbins - Green Bay Run

Plato’s brow knit, and he pondered for several seconds. He gazed to the west, in the direction of the dozens of log cabins aligned from north to south in the center of the compound, and nodded. “Oh. An appropriate choice.”

“Who else?”

“So what’s the name of this vehicle again?” Andrew asked.

“The SEAL,” Blade responded, his eyes on the stretch of State Highway 46 ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel lightly. Cracks, ruts, potholes, and an occasional crater several feet deep had transformed the highway into an obstacle course. Although the SEAL could negotiate any type of terrain with relative ease, he skillfully avoided the craters to spare his passengers from being unduly jostled. The air coming through his open window stirred his hair.

“Why would anyone name a gigantic van after an animal that swims around in the water?” Andrew queried.

“SEAL is an acronym. It stands for Solar Energized Amphibious and Land Recreational Vehicle.”

“Recreational?”

“Yeah. Kurt Carpenter spent millions of dollars to have the transport developed by automakers in Detroit before the war. Carpenter foresaw the collapse of mass transportation. He knew the Family would have need of a special type of vehicle. So he had the SEAL built according to his specifications. The auto-makers viewed him as a harmless eccentric with gobs of money,” Blade elaborated, feeling grateful for his ancestor’s wisdom. Without the SEAL to convey them long distances, the Family would never have ventured into the outside world and met their allies in the Federation.

As a prototype, the SEAL incorporated revolutionary design elements in its construction. As its name denoted, the van was solar-powered. A pair of solar panels attached to the roof collected the sunlight, which was converted and stored in unique batteries housed in a lead-lined case under the SEAL. Fabricated to be virtually indestructible, the body of the vehicle consisted of a shatterproof, heat-resistant plastic, and the floor was composed of an impervious metal alloy. To traverse the roughest landscape, the van rode on four huge tires, each four feet high, two feet wide, and puncture-resistant.

“But what happens if we run into trouble?” Andrew inquired. “What good is a recreational vehicle against armed enemies?”

Blade smiled. “Any enemy who attacks the SEAL is in for a big surprise,” he said, thinking of the special modifications the Founder had made on the transport. Or rather, Carpenter had hired mercenaries to make the modifications. Four toggle switches located on the dash would activate the SEAL’S armaments. Hidden under each front headlight in a recessed compartment was a 50-caliber machine gun. Mounted in the roof over the driver’s seat was a miniaturized surface-to-air missile, a heat-seeking Stinger with a range of ten miles. An Army Surplus Model flamethrower had been installed in the middle of the front fender. Layers of insulation surrounded the flamethrower to protect the vehicle from the extreme heat when the device was triggered. And finally, a rocket launcher had been placed in the center of the front grill.

“I’ve never seen a vehicle like this one,” Andrew said. He glanced to his left at the giant, who sat behind the wheel in the other bucket seat. A console separated them. “Why is the body tinted green?”

“So we can see out but no one can see inside,” Blade answered.

“Carpenter didn’t miss a trick.”

“The Lord blessed us with a provident Founder,” commented a deep voice to his rear.

Blade looked into the rearview mirror. Behind the bucket seats was another seat running the width of the vehicle. Yama sat on the passenger side, morosely staring out at the countryside. Under the silver-haired Warrior’s left arm rested a Smith and Wesson Model 586 Distinguished Combat Magnum; under his right arm a Browning Hi-Power 9-millimeter Automatic Pistol. Dangling from Yama’s right hip was a Razorback survival knife, and from the left side his scimitar. Cradled in his lap was a Wilkinson Carbine fitted with a 50-shot magazine.

Directly behind Blade sat the speaker. He wore a camouflage uniform tailored to fit by the Family Weavers, and the snug fabric accentuated his massive, broad-shouldered build. His eyes were brown, his features ruggedly handsome. His square jaw lent him an aspect of forceful decisiveness. But his most striking feature was his light brown hair, which hung to the small of his wide back and had been braided from the neck down. A pair of Bushmaster Auto Pistols were strapped to his waist, each one in a specially crafted swivel holster. Propped against his right leg was a Bushmaster Auto Rifle. In size and stature he appeared to be Yama’s twin, although at six feet three inches he stood a shade shorter than the man in blue. His musculature, however, had been developed to a slightly higher degree and he was thicker through the middle.

“This is the first extended run you’ve been on, Samson,” Blade remarked. “How do you like it so far?”

Samson patted the seat. “It’s a cushy job. We have all the comforts of home. No wonder Hickok and Geronimo like to take off with you all the time.”

“Enjoy the peace and quiet while it lasts,” Blade advised, and glanced at Yama. “What about you? How are you holding up?”

“I’m bored to tears. I can’t wait to reach Green Bay.”

Andrew twisted in his seat. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew the Technics like I know the Technics.”

Yama’s lips became a thin line. “I know them.”

“Were you involved with the run-in your Family had with them?” Andrew inquired.

Yama simply nodded.

“Say! Were you the one who killed the Minister and the First Secretary?”

“No,” Yama responded.

“Hickok was the Warrior who took care of the Minister,” Blade disclosed.

“Wasn’t he the one I met right before we left? The guy wearing the buckskins? The one who talked funny?” Andrew queried.

Blade grinned. “That was Hickok.”

“He’s weird.”

“So everyone keeps telling me.”

Andrew looked at the silver-haired Warrior, puzzled by Yama’s moody behavior, then turned his attention to the one they called Samson. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Be my guest, brother.”

“Why do you wear your hair so long? Doesn’t it get in your way when you’re fighting?”

Samson chuckled and reached back to pull his braided locks over his left shoulder. “I wear my hair in this style because I’m a Nazarite.”

“A Nazarite? I thought you were a Warrior,” Andrew mentioned.

“I’m both.”

“So what’s a Nazarite? The name sounds vaguely familiar.”

“Have you read the Bible?” Samson asked.

“Parts of it,” Andrew said.

“Well, the order of the voluntary Nazarites stems from Biblical times. I took the Nazarite vow when I was seven, pledging to live according to the will of the Lord, every second of every day. As a token of that vow, as a symbol of my devotion, I’ve never let a razor touch the hair on my head,” Samson detailed.

The farmer blinked a few times, glanced at Blade, then at Samson. “Are you putting me on?”

“I would never mock the Lord.”

“Wow. I’ve never heard of anyone doing such a thing,” Andrew stated.

“The original Samson, the one in the Bible who slew the Philistines, was a Nazarite. So was John the Baptist. I’ve merely carried on the tradition,” Samson said.

“I believe in God, but you must really be religious to go this far. What else is part of your vow?”

“I’ve never drunk intoxicating beverages.”

“Never?” Andrew asked, and idly brushed at a dirt smudge on the blue shirt the Family had given him, along with pants and a box of ammo.