David Robbins - Dallas Run

Blade pointed at the troopers. “And your converts?”

“At full dosage, they take about three days, on average, to break out in spots.”

“Full dosage?”

“We administer a dipperful twice a day for three days. That’s usually enough.”

“But why don’t the people you convert resent their conversion? Why don’t they turn on you?”

“I can answer that!” Sergeant Whitney interjected. “The damn chemicals do strange things to your mind. You lose your will, your ability to resist, and these bastards brainwash you into believing every word they say!”

“Crude, but essentially accurate,” the Lawgiver admitted. “Children born with the marks do not pass through the receptive phase, as I prefer to call the stage where an adult is susceptible to indoctrination. Evidently the chemicals cause an imbalance in adult brains, disorienting them and rendering them ripe for my spiritual edification.”

“You mean manipulation,” Blade said bitterly.

The Lawgiver shrugged. “I would not expect a crass mercenary to see the light.”

“None of this explains how you intend to convert the rest of the human population,” Blade commented. “At the rate you’re going, it will take you a million years just to convert the Civilized Zone.”

A crafty glint radiated from the Lawgiver’s eyes. “Not if I introduce the chemicals into the water supply of every town and city.”

Blade did a double take. “What?”

“You heard me. All I need to do is capture inhabitants of the Civilized Zone, administer the chemicals and initiate them into the Chosen, then send them back into the Zone to pump the Elixir of Life into selected water tanks and reservoirs,” the Lawgiver detailed. “Since the converts from the Civilized Zone know the Zone so well, they’re ideal agents.”

“It’ll never work,” Blade said.

“Oh? Why not?”

“You just said that diluted doses aren’t effective. You’d have to add massive amounts to any water supply to convert the residents of a town or city.”

“True. We’ve experimented and performed precise calculations on the amount of chemicals we must add to varying quantities of water.”

Blade snorted derisively. “What are your agents going to do? Carry the chemicals in the dipper?”

“Follow me,” the Lawgiver directed, and walked toward a door in the north wall.

“Hang in there,” Blade said to Sergeant Whitney, and followed the leader of the Chosen. He glanced at the immense mixing tank. The very thought of someone deliberately adding toxic chemicals to a water supply chilled him. He’d known the Lawgiver was a madman, but he’d had no idea exactly how insane the man actually was. And he’d been wrong earlier. The Chosen were zombies in a sense—breathing, walking, talking, programmed crazies who had lost all conception of truth, reality, and right and wrong.

The Lawgiver exited the square building and went to the rectangular structure on the north.

Blade glanced absently at the fields beyond the fence to the east, and he observed a herd of wild cattle grazing. The observation did not, at that moment, seem very important.

“Take a look in here,” the Lawgiver directed, opening a door and stepping aside. Aaron and two guards joined him.

Blade moved to the doorway, and his mouth dropped open when he laid his eyes on the eight vehicles aligned in a row and facing an enormous metal corrugated door in the east wall. “Tanker trucks!” he blurted out.

“Tanker trucks,” the Lawgiver confirmed, beaming. “Eight here, six in another of the buildings. One tank can transport more than enough to convert the residents of an average town.”

“You’ll never get them into the Civilized Zone,” Blade said, although his tone lacked conviction. “They’ll stop you at the sentry posts.”

“Please. Don’t insult my intelligence. We both know the sentry posts are on the major highways. The Civilized Zone Army can’t possibly cover every secondary road entering their borders. One of my trucks can slip in under cover of darkness, travel to its destination using only the back roads, deposit its load of chemicals in a reservoir, and return without anyone in authority being any the wiser. Clever, no?”

Blade turned from the doorway, his mind reeling, stunned by the practicality of the plan. The scheme might, just might, succeed.

“Can you imagine what would happen if I sent in fourteen loads at once, all to different towns? Within a week the entire countryside would be in a turmoil as more and more people developed the marks.

Pandemonium would reign. The military would be unable to contain the hysteria. Those who break out with the splotches will be confused, scared, feeling like outcasts, desperate for guidance and aid which, of course, I will gladly supply,” the Lawgiver said gleefully.

“It won’t work,” Blade reiterated.

“Give me a valid reason why it won’t.”

“You’re a lunatic.”

The Lawgiver cackled, then uttered a surprising, remarkably wise statement. “Since when has sanity ever been a prerequisite to wielding power?”

Blade didn’t know what to say. He glanced at the tanker trucks, his features downcast.

“Thank you,” the Lawgiver said.

“For what?”

“For your reaction. Why do you think I brought you here? I wanted to test your reaction to my plan, to see if you, an outsider, would acknowledge the viability of my grand design,” the Lawgiver said, and paused. “Your expression says it all.”

“So what now? Will you try to convert me?”

“Now we shall return to the Temple. And, as I promised, you will shortly meet your Destiny.” Aaron and the two guards laughed.

“I can’t leave you clowns alone for a minute.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You cow chips need someone to hold your hands and watch over you every second. I’m gone for a spell, and the Big Guy gets himself captured and you goof off.”

“I haven’t been goofing off,” Geronimo said indignantly.

“Have you tangled with any humongous cockroaches?”

“No.”

“Did you bump into any jumbo spiders?”

“No, but—”

“I bet you didn’t even stomp any Stompers. Why is it I always do all the work on these runs?”

“You’d better be careful,” Geronimo stated.

“Why?”

“At the rate you’re going, your nose will be ten inches longer by nightfall.”

“Why are you pickin’ on my nose?”

“I wouldn’t pick your nose with a ten-foot pole.”

“Excuse me,” said a voice behind them.

The Warriors stopped and turned.

“Do the two of you do this all the time?” Marlon inquired.

“Do what?” Hickok asked.

“Argue,” Marlon said.

“We never argue,” Geronimo responded. “We engage in enlightened discussion.”

“We do?” Hickok said.

“Yep. You babble, and I enlighten you on your mistakes,” Geronimo said.

Marlon chuckled and looked at the gunman. “I want to thank you again.”

“It was a piece of cake.”

“Melanie might be dead right now if not for you,” Marlon said. “She told me how you saved her.”

“She saved my hide too, so I reckon we’re even,” Hickok mentioned.

“Not quite. Anything I can do for you, I will,” Marlon pledged.

“How much longer until we’re there?” Geronimo inquired.

“Kiest Park? About ten, maybe fifteen minutes. I hope the Stompers are still hanging out there. They were last we knew,” Marlon mentioned.

“Ten minutes, huh? Then let’s vamoose,” Hickok suggested. He stared at the line of Chains strung out to their rear.

“Head out!” Marlon declared.