David Robbins - Boston Run

Unaware of the man’s proximity, the buck walked under the spreading limbs of the maple.

In a fluid, graceful motion the man pounced, dropping from the limb and angling his descent to land on the ground next to the buck’s right front shoulder. The machetes streaked through the air, unerringly on target.

The white-tailed deer could do no more than snort in surprise as the human alighted beside it. Instantly it went to bound away, its four legs beginning to propel it upwards. But before the buck completed the leap, its right front leg was sliced off at the knee, causing it to stumble forward with blood gushing from the stump.

With ambidextrous precision the man swung both machetes, cutting off the right rear leg and slashing open the buck’s neck simultaneously. He straightened and stepped back, expressing no emotion as the dear toppled to the ground and kicked and thrashed on the grass. Crimson drops spattered in every direction. Wide-eyed in terror, the buck gradually weakened, its efforts feebler and feebler.

The man in brown wiped his machetes clean on the grass, then reached up and slid them into the crisscrossed black canvas sheaths attached to his back. A black handle jutted above each shoulder, within easy grasp at a moment’s notice. He folded his wiry arms and watched the buck’s death throes. Only when he was satisfied that the animal had expired did he crouch and flip the deer onto its back.

A pool of blood had formed underneath the buck.

He wiped excess blood from the buck with his left hand, then proceeded to slowly lift the white-tail’s front half. Squatting and twisting his torso, he managed to drape the heavy carcass on his back. Then, grunting from the exertion, he rose to his full height with the buck across his shoulders.

In the surrounding forest life went on. Birds sang and insects droned.

The man hiked southeastward, skirting the southern rim of the pond, his tread measured, his stride indicating he could walk for hours with his burden and not tire. The terrain being generally flat, he made good time.

Within an hour he spotted the 20-foot-high brick walls enclosing the 30-acre survivalist retreat built over a century ago by the man who started the Family, Kurt Carpenter.

Situated in northwestern Minnesota, on the outskirts of the former Lake Bronson State Park, the compound had been strategically positioned by the Founder to enable the Warriors on the ramparts to see anyone or anything approaching from all directions. As added insurance, the ground for 150 yards in every direction had been cleared of all trees, brush, and boulders. Consequently, the Warrior on the west wall spied the man in brown and gave a shout for the drawbridge in the center of the wall to be lowered.

The man crossed the field, watching the drawbridge lower slowly. He glanced at the Warrior on duty on the rampart and recognized the tall, lanky figure and distinctive red Mohawk of Ares, the head of Omega Triad.

“Hello, Marcus,” Ares called down.

“Hi,” Marcus responded. He stepped onto the drawbridge and paused at the sight of the person awaiting him on the opposite bank of the inner moat. Mystified, he advanced until he was two yards from the man and halted. “Hickok,” he said in greeting.

The Family’s preeminent gunfighter nodded, his thumbs looped in his gunbelt, his gaze roving over the buck. “Howdy, Marcus. Where’d you bag the deer?”

“At that pond northwest of here,” Marcus replied.

“Isn’t baggin’ game a job for the Hunters?”

Marcus studied the gunman for a moment. “Usually. But Blade has always permitted the Warriors to go after game when we’re not on duty.”

“True, but you’re supposed to let Blade know first.”

“Blade’s not here,” Marcus noted.

“Which means I’m in charge,” Hickok said. “Why didn’t you let me know?”

Marcus went to shrug, but the weight of the buck prevented him. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

The gunman stepped closer, smiled, and leaned forward, his nose an inch from Marcus’s. ” I mind , “he stated emphatically, then straightened.

“I expect to be treated with the same respect you’d show Blade. When you’re off duty, your time is your own. But if you want to go traipsin’ off into the woods, you’re supposed to let the head Warrior know. What if something had happened to you out there? We wouldn’t have had the slightest idea where to search for your mangy hide.”

“Nothing would have happened,” Marcus responded.

“Oh? Are you an Empath, now, too?”

“No—” Marcus began.

“Are you invincible?”

“No, but—”

“Do you have cow patties for brains?”

Marcus opened his mouth to reply.

“If you ever pull a stunt like this again, I’ll have you up in front of a Review Board so fast you’ll be dizzy,” Hickok snapped, his tone low and hard. “Savvy?”

“I understand,” Marcus said, “but—”

“There are no buts about it,” Hickok declared. “And Blade will hear about this when he gets back.”

“Do we know where he is?” Marcus asked hopefully.

“We have a good idea where he’s at,” Hickok disclosed. “The hybrids found a clue.”

“Are you going after him?”

“Yep. Geronimo is comin’ with me. We’ll take the SEAL.”

“Are you sure the two of you will be enough?” Marcus asked.

“Nope. I’m aimin’ to take along one other Warrior,” Hickok said, and grinned.

“Who?” Marcus inquired, and suddenly, in a flash of insight, he understood why the gunman had been waiting for him. “Me?”

“You,” Hickok confirmed.

“But why me?” Marcus blurted out, astounded by the unexpected development.

“Why not?” Hickok rejoined.

“I’ve never been on a run before,” Marcus noted.

“All the more reason you should go on this one,” Hickok said. “You’re one of the youngest Warriors. You’re—what?— twenty-four?”

Marcus nodded.

“Well, no offense meant, but you’re also one of the least experienced.

Most of the other Warriors have been on missions away from the Home. I reckon it’s about time you had a turn.”

“Ares hasn’t been on a run yet,” Marcus mentioned absently, excitement mounting inside him. Here was his chance to venture into the Outlands! Here was an opportunity to test the skills he’d so diligently honed! He realized Hickok had selected him for that very reason, to give him the combat experience he needed, and his respect for the gunman rose several degrees.

“Omega Triad is on wall duty. Ares will be on duty for six more hours, and we’re leavin’ in thirty minutes. Geronimo is loadin’ our gear and supplies into the SEAL right now,” Hickok said.

Marcus gazed at the compound, at the dozens of Family members engaged in various activities, at children playing and adults conversing and a Musician playing a guitar, and he suppressed an urge to shout for joy. “There are other Warriors who haven’t been on runs,” he noted, too thrilled to think of anything else to say.

“Yeah, I know,” Hickok replied. “Teucer, Samson, Spartacus, and the mutants ain’t been on runs. They’ll get their turn sooner or later.” He paused and chuckled. “Actually, I was fixin’ to take Yama. But Lynx spoke up and reminded me that there are Warriors who haven’t gone out on the SEAL yet. He had a good point. I was up past midnight decidin’ who to take.” He beamed. “Lucky you.”

“Maybe Lynx was hoping you’d take him.”

“You could be right,” Hickok said. “When I bumped into Lynx an hour ago and told him I’d picked you, he walked away muttering something about meatheads.”

“What all should I bring along?” Marcus asked.