David Robbins - Dallas Run

In the middle of the 30-acre plot, in a line from north to south, were the cabins for the married couples and their children. The western section contained the enormous, reinforced concrete blocks devoted to specific functions. Arranged in a triangular fashion and designated according to letters, with A Block at the southern tip of the triangle, the blocks were positioned precisely 100 yards apart.

A Block housed the Family armory, with one of the greatest collections of weapons ever assembled. The sleeping quarters for the single Family members were in B block. C Block was the infirmary, where the Healers ministered to anyone who was sick or injured. A workshop area for the making of everything from furniture to shoes filled D Block. E Block contained a library that would have rivaled any in existence before the war, and F Block was devoted to gardening and farming and managed by the Tillers.

Access to the compound was over a drawbridge situated in the center of the west wall. The original drawbridge had been destroyed during a siege by an enemy army, and the replacement opened outward instead of inward. A massive wooden bridge between the base of the drawbridge and the compound proper enabled those entering or leaving to cross the moat.

Thanks to an ingenious design, the Family would never experience a water shortage. A rechanneled stream flowed into the Home in the northwest corner, via an aqueduct, and was diverted into two streams along the base of the brick walls, converging again at the southeast corner, where the water passed through another aqueduct and meandered to the south.

“I wonder why that flyin’ contraption came here,” Hickok said.

“We’ll soon know,” Blade said.

The gunfighter rubbed his palms together and grinned. “Maybe we’ll finally see some action.”

“You hope there’s trouble?” Blade responded curtly.

“We haven’t seen any action in months. I’m gettin’ rusty doing nothing but walkin’ the ramparts and baby-sittin’ the tykes,” Hickok said.

Geronimo snickered. “If I recall correctly, you were the one who claimed he was tired of all the killing. On our last run, to Cincinnati, you told us you were all set to hang up your guns and take up knitting as a hobby.”

“I never said any such thing,” Hickok countered. “You were the hombre all prepared to stop being a Warrior, and I figured I’d go along with you to cheer you up.”

“White Man speak with forked tongue,” Geronimo said.

“Blade, you were there,” Hickok mentioned. “Tell this snake in the grass how it really was.”

“Don’t involve me in your petty squabbles.”

Hickok and Geronimo looked at one another.

“Did he say squabbles?” the gunman asked.

“Did he say petty?” Geronimo responded.

“What’s eatin’ you, pard?” Hickok asked the giant.

“Nothing,” Blade said testily.

“Then why are you suddenly so cranky?” Hickok asked.

“Who’s cranky?” Blade retorted.

“Is your missus on your case again?” the gunfighter asked, pressing the issue.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Blade said. He surveyed the landscape ahead. Dozens of Family members were moving across the large area between the concrete blocks, hustling toward the open drawbridge.

“We’re your pards, remember? If you’re upset, we want to lend a hand,” Hickok offered.

“You can help me by dropping the subject.”

“Consider it dropped,” Hickok said.

They walked in silence for all of five seconds.

“But if you’d like me to talk to Jenny, I will,” Hickok volunteered.

Blade glanced at the Family’s preeminent pistoleer. “You do and I’ll break every bone in your body.”

“Does that mean no?”

Blade increased his pace.

“I think you should talk to her,” Geronimo whispered to the gunman.

“You do?”

“Sure.”

“But you heard the Big Guy.”

“Yep. That’s why I think you should talk to her. You’ll be giving Blade a chance to practice his self-control,” Geronimo remarked.

“And what happens if he blows his lid?” Hickok asked.

Geronimo shrugged. “You’ll be wearing a body cast for a year or so. No big deal.”

The gunman’s eyes narrowed. “Oh. I get it. You want him to beat me to a pulp.”

“Heaven forbid,” Geronimo said with an air of supreme innocence.

“Besides, he couldn’t beat your whole body to a pulp.”

“Because I’m lean and mean?”

“No, because if he hit your thick skull he’d break his hand,” Geronimo answered, and chuckled at his own joke.

“You’re a funny man,” Hickok said. “You’d be funnier if you had a sense of humor, but you’re still a load of laughs.”

“I have to be, working with you every day,” Geronimo countered.

“Otherwise I’d lose my mind.”

“What mind?”

They hurried to the bridge over the moat, mingling with other Family members, and moments later were standing outside the compound at the edge of the crowd gathered to gawk at the aircraft and welcome the occupants of the Hurricane. The brush and trees had been cleared for 150 yards in every direction from the brick walls, enabling the Warriors on guard duty on the ramparts to spot any raiders or mutations that might be tempted to attack the Home. Invariably when a Hurricane arrived at the retreat, the pilot would set the craft down in the field to the west of the drawbridge. Although the VTOL could come down in the tract between the concrete blocks, the pilot ran the risk of a stray child blundering too near the aircraft and being injured.

Four men were conversing next to the Hurricane.

An elderly man in a brown shirt and pants was addressing the others.

Gray hair and a long gray beard framed facial features reflecting an innate dignity and wisdom. His wiry hands were clasped behind his stooped back.

To the right of the aged speaker stood two men in uniform. The taller of the pair wore the blue uniform of a captain in the Free State of California Air Force, and in his left hand he gripped a flight helmet. The second man wore the typical green uniform of an officer in the Civilized Zone Army.

Gold insignia adorned his shoulders. His rugged visage showed him a man accustomed to being obeyed.

In front of the elderly man, his sturdy form clad in a blue suit, his black hair clipped short, was a figure who’d unconsciously adopted an attitude of self-importance. His suit was immaculate, his black shoes polished.

“Excuse me,” Blade said, and politely proceeded through the crowd toward the VTOL. When still 15 yards from the quartet, he saw the blue eyes of the man in blue swing in his direction and a smile lit the other’s face.

“Blade! Am I glad to see you! We’ve got trouble!”

Blade extended his right hand as he advanced. “Hello, President Toland,” he greeted the leader of the Civilized Zone.

The man in the blue suit took the Warrior’s hand and shook it vigorously. “It’s nice to see you again, Blade. I only wish the circumstances were different. We need to find a place to talk in private.”

“Glad to see you, Blade,” chimed in the Civilized Zone officer, nodding at the giant.

“General Reese,” Blade said, and smiled at the other officer, the captain in the California Air Force. “Captain Laslo. We weren’t expecting you for about three more weeks.”

The pilot nodded at the VTOL. “Have wings, will travel. That’s my motto.”

Blade twisted and gestured at his companions. “All of you know Hickok and Geronimo.”

More greetings were exchanged, and then the elderly man cleared his throat.

“Gentlemen, we should adjourn to E Block. I’m sure we can find a quiet corner in the library in which to hold our discussion.”