David Robbins - Dallas Run

“The Lawgiver selected the site for our Temple of worship, for the center of our religious activities,” Aaron said. “Legend has it that the stadium was used for a secular purpose before the war.”

“Your Temple is a stadium?”

Aaron nodded. “You’ll see for yourself shortly.”

Blade lapsed into a moody silence, gazing idly at the skyscrapers and other imposing structures as they rode to the southeast. The buildings in the central section of the metropolis were in better condition than those he’d seen in most major cities. He spied an immense sign on the roof of an edifice to the south and regarded it quizzically.

The sign depicted two men engaged in a peculiar form of combat or contest. Both wore strange uniforms imprinted with large numbers on their shirts or jerseys. Both wore bizarre spiked shoes. And both wore weird helmets covering their heads from their foreheads to their shoulders. On the front of each helmet, over the mouth of each man, was a handle for carrying the headpiece. The man on the left carried a bizarre oval ball tucked under his arm. In bold letters above both men were puzzling words: GO COWBOYS!

Blade racked his brain for an explanation of the sign. He knew about cowboys because Hickok was always reading books from the Family library on the Wild West. Cowboys wore Stetsons, sombreros, or other varieties of wide-brimmed hats, not helmets. And real cowboys had packed revolvers, not carried balls. He deduced the sign must relate to a type of sport, and he vaguely recalled skimming a book on American sports when he was much younger. It contained photographs of men in similar attire. What had the game been called? Tennis, wasn’t it?

“There’s the Temple,” Aaron declared.

The Warrior shifted his gaze to the tremendous architectural marvel they were approaching. The sheer size and scope dwarfed the nearby buildings into insignificance. Curiously, there didn’t appear to be any windows in the towering walls. The shape, from his vantage point, seemed to be circular.

“One day the Chosen will find the Temple,” Aaron predicted.

“In a million years, maybe,” Blade quipped.

“Much sooner than that,” Aaron said cryptically.

“Not unless you breed like rabbits,” Blade responded.

“I’m willing,” Marta interjected, and snickered.

“One day the Chosen will fill the Temple,” Aaron predicted.

“The Lawgiver wouldn’t condemn me.”

“Don’t be so certain. He has overlooked your erratic behavior in the past because you were born pure. If you were a convert, he would have consigned you to face Destiny.”

Marta laughed lightly. “I’m not worried, Brother Aaron. I’m one of the Lawgiver’s favorites.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Aaron said testily, and kneed his mount ahead of Victor.

“The Lawgiver can have you killed because of your behavior?” Blade asked.

“The Lawgiver has the power of life and death over the flock,” Marta explained. “If one of the Chosen should become tainted by the impure, then their name will be stricken from the scroll of glory.”

“You’ve lost me. Who are the impure?”

“You are one of the impure.”

“Me?”

“And everyone who doesn’t have the Mark.”

Blade pondered her information for a moment, then looked at the green splotches on her back. “Do you mean the green marks?”

“Yeah. The Mark of the Chosen.”

“Everyone who has the green marks is one of the Chosen?”

“Of course. And when the earth is cleansed, only the Chosen will remain,” Marta said.

“Does the Lawgiver intend to cleanse the whole planet of the impure?”

Marta nodded. “Starting with the Civilized Zone.”

“So the attacks on the sentry posts must tie in with the Lawgiver’s grandiose plan,” Blade commented.

Marta didn’t respond.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Blade queried.

“What?”

“Why do you run around without any clothes on?”

“The Lawgiver teaches us to be proud that we bear the Mark of the Chosen. If we wore clothing, we would cover the sign of our purity, and we should always display our purity before our Maker.”

“You’re losing me again.”

She sighed and glanced back at him. “Be patient. The Lawgiver will explain everything to you.”

“I can hardly wait,” Blade muttered dryly.

They neared the stadium, crossing a wide boulevard and riding onto a vast parking lot. A half dozen of the Chosen emerged from doors at ground level and came toward the mounted party.

“Hello, Brother Aaron!” called out a muscular man carrying a Winchester.

“Greetings, Brother Judas,” Aaron replied.

The two groups met in the middle of the parking lot, and the muscular man studied the Warrior.

“The Lawgiver will be pleased.”

“I live to serve,” Aaron said. “Where are you headed?”

“Out on patrol.”

“Brother Ezekiel is in need of assistance in the northwest sector, at the Donogal Office Building.”

“I know where it’s at. We’ll head right there,” Judas said.

“May the Maker guide all your footsteps,” Aaron stated.

Judas’s group strode off.

Blade watched them depart as Marta urged Victor forward. “He mentioned the Maker. Was he referring to our spirit Maker?”

“None other.”

“Are the Chosen religious?”

“What a stupid question. Of course.”

“You’re religious, and yet you traipse around without any clothes on,” Blade remarked.

“The Maker created our skin. Why should we be ashamed of nudity? The Lawgiver says that nudity is purity, and purity is the Mark,” Marta said.

“How convenient.”

“You shouldn’t make fun of the Lawgiver,” Marta mentioned. “You’ll live longer.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Blade said.

Aaron signaled for a halt when his party came within five yards of the doors. “Dismount.”

“I’ll stay and watch over the horses,” Blade offered.

Grinning, Aaron shook his head. “Thanks just the same. Brother Micah will watch over our horses.”

“Are you positive you can trust him?”

“Inside,” Aaron instructed, nodding at the doors.

The Warrior obeyed, pausing within to survey a drab corridor. He felt a hard object jab him in the small of the back, and he gazed over his right shoulder to find the barrel of Aaron’s Marlin .30-30 an inch from his spine.

“Just so you don’t get any ideas,” the tall man said.

“You don’t trust me?” Blade asked, feigning a degree of hurt in his tone.

“As far as I can throw you,” Aaron replied, and gestured to proceed.

Escorted by the nine Chosen, Blade followed the passage until they reached a junction. Aaron directed him to take the left branch, and a minute later they took a right at another fork. After they made five subsequent turns, Blade began to wonder if the tall man was deliberately trying to confuse him. Finally they went straight for 30 yards, along a wide corridor that inclined slightly upward, and stepped out into the sunlight.

Blade blinked, adjusting his eyes, and when he stared at the scene before him, his brow knit in consternation.

“Welcome to the Temple,” Aaron commented.

This was a temple?

Blade shook his head in amazement.

He stood at one end of a gargantuan stadium. Above and around him rose tier after tier of narrow wooden seats, an interminable number, ascending to the very heavens. The center of the stadium consisted of a green field approximately one hundred yards in length. At the near and far edges of this field reared a pair of outlandish metal uprights, with two tall vertical posts connected by a horizontal post. He tried to conceive of the purpose of the uprights, and speculated they might have been used in some sort of climbing contest.