David Robbins: Dallas Run

“It’s too hot for clothes, don’t you think?”

“It’s hot,” Sergeant Whitney agreed, “but most folks don’t strip off all their clothing just because it gets hot.”

“Neither do I.”

Whitney’s brown eyes narrowed. “But you said it’s too hot to be wearing clothes, and you’re naked.”

Marta beamed at the noncom and winked. “Noticed, huh?” She giggled.

“Men always notice.”

“Why did you take off your clothing?” Sergeant Whitney asked.

“I didn’t,” Marta replied.

“But you’re not wearing any.”

“I never do.”

Sergeant Whitney and Nelson exchanged puzzled expressions.

“Pardon me, miss, but I don’t quite understand,” Whitney remarked.

“Do you mean you always go around nude?”

“Nudity is purity, and purity is the Mark.”

“What mark?” Whitney asked.

“The Mark of the Chosen.”

Nelson listened to the exchange in bewilderment. The woman’s bizarre behavior inclined him to the opinion she was off her rocker. From the tales he’d heard, he knew the Outlands teemed with wackos, unfortunate crazies whose dementia could be attributed to their parents ingesting foodstuffs tainted by the radioactive and chemical poisons polluting the environment. He looked at Whitney and rolled his eyes.

“Well, Marta, I’ll have to insist that you remain where you are while I contact the lieutenant,” the noncom told her.

“Can I come a little closer?” Marta requested, and nudged the white horse with her ankles before Whitney could answer.

“That’s close enough.”

“I won’t bite,” Marta said, and grinned impishly, advancing nearer, to within 15 yards.

“Stop!” Sergeant Whitney barked.

She reined up. “Okay. Okay. Don’t lay an egg. I can’t believe hunks like you two are scared of little old me.”

“We can’t take any chances,” Sergeant Whitney said. “There’s a possibility you’re infected with a disease.”

“I am not,” Marta responded indignantly.

“Then what are those green spots all over you?”

Marta touched one of the inch-wide irregular splotches on her left thigh. “Do you mean these?”

“What are they?”

She traced the outline of the splotch with her finger. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Miss?”

“Such exquisite design. The Maker is magnificent.”

Sergeant Whitney glanced at his companion. “She needs a psychiatrist,” he whispered, then faced the woman and raised his voice.

“When did you break out in those green spots?”

Marta looked up in surprise. “These? I’ve had these all of my life.”

“You were born with them?” Sergeant Whitney inquired.

“Yes. Some of the Chosen are born with the Mark, some are converted.”

“I’m sure they are,” Whitney said. “Watch her,” he ordered Nelson, and walked into the sentry hut.

“What’s your name again?” Marta asked the private.

“Nelson. Art Nelson.”

“Were you born with the Mark?”

“I wasn’t born with green spots on my body,” Nelson responded.

“None whatsoever?”

“None,” Nelson verified.

“How sad,” Marta declared and frowned. “But then we can’t be blamed, can we?”

“Blamed for what?” Nelson asked.

“For the outworking of the Maker’s will.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“We follow the Lawgiver, and the Lawgiver has decreed the cleansing of the Earth.”

Nelson repressed an impulse to cackle. Her nonsensical talk indicated how severely unbalanced her mind must be. He felt a degree of sympathy for the woman and hoped the doctors would be able to assist her.

“Where are you from?” Marta asked him.

“I was born and raised in Denver,” Nelson disclosed.

“Where’s Denver?”

“North of here about seven hundred and eighty miles.”

“Do any of the Chosen dwell in Denver?”

“Who are the Chosen?” Nelson rejoined.

“You have ears, but you don’t hear,” Marta said, and sighed. “When the final roll call is made, where will you be?”

Nelson didn’t know what to say, so he held his tongue.

“When the final roll call is made, I’ll be counted on the side of righteousness and glory,” Marta said.

“That’s nice,” Nelson replied politely.

“I have served the Lawgiver faithfully for all my years,” Marta went on.

“My name will be entered on the scroll of glory.”

“I hope it’s spelled correctly,” Nelson quipped, looking at the hut. He saw Whitney seated at a table. The noncom’s back was to the sole window, and on the table next to his left arm sat the radio. A headset perched on the sergeant’s head. His shoulders were slumped, as if he was dejected over something.

“I hope you’ll forgive us for our deception,” Maria said.

“Deception?” Nelson repeated absently, still gazing at Sergeant Whitney, mystified because his friend wasn’t moving. Her words abruptly sank in, and he looked up at the woman, befuddled by her comments. “Us? Who are you talking about?”

“Why, my brothers and sisters, of course,” Marta said, smiling sweetly and motioning at the field on the right side of Highway 289.

Dread engulfing him, Nelson pivoted toward the field, his confounded expression transforming into a petrified one at the sight of the grim, unnatural swarm closing on Sentry Post 17. Goose bumps erupted all over his flesh, and he spun toward the hut. “Sarge!” he shouted, taking a stride, only to see two more appear in the doorway as Whitney toppled from the chair.

Marta laughed.

Private Art Nelson raised his M-16, squeezed the trigger, and screamed in abject terror.

“Do you see them, pard?”

“Nope.”

“What about you, you mangy Injun?”

“No sign of them. And if you call me that again, I’ll scalp you.”

The three men were lying flat on their stomachs on the east side of a low hill, less than a yard below the rim. Trees and undergrowth surrounded them except on the crown of the hill.

“I reckon I’ll take a gander,” proposed the man lying on the right, a lean figure attired in buckskins and moccasins. Around his slim waist were strapped a matched pair of Colt Python revolvers. Blond hair and a blond mustache accented his handsome features. His alert blue eyes narrowed as he edged cautiously higher.

“Do you think it’s safe?” asked the stocky Indian on the left. He wore a green shirt and green pants, both sewn together from the remnants of an old canvas. In contrast to his blond associate, his hair was black, his eyes brown. Secure in a shoulder holster under his right arm rested an Arminius .357 Magnum, while tucked under his deer-hide belt above his right hip was a genuine tomahawk.

“If it’s a trap, we’ll soon know,” said the man in the middle, a seven-foot giant wearing a black leather vest, green fatigue pants, and black combat boots. On each hip rode a Bowie knife snug in its sheath. A comma of dark hair hung above his gray eyes. His most outstanding attribute was his awesome physique; he bulged with layer upon layer of rippling muscles.

Even while lying prone on the ground he emanated an aura of raw power.

“How far are we from the base?” the gunman in the buckskins asked, pausing below the crest.

“I estimate about two hundred yards,” answered the Indian.

The gunman inched to the top and lifted his head for a glimpse of the slope on the opposite side. “All I see are trees and more trees,” he whispered.

“Figures,” the Indian muttered.

“What’s that crack supposed to mean?” the gunman demanded, sliding from the rim.

“It means you couldn’t spot them if they were sitting on the tip of your nose, Hickok.”