David Robbins - Memphis Run

“I think you’re sad because Daddy is gone.”

“Aren’t you?”

Ringo frowned and shuffled his moccasins. “Yeah. I reckon.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know what I mean. Don’t use the same kind of words your father does. He may like to talk like a turnip, but I’ll be—darned—if you will.”

“I think Daddy talks neat.”

“You’re the only one who does,” she said, gazing to the north. They were slowly ambling toward the north wall, and the figure of one of her fellow Warriors, on guard duty, was visible on the rampart.

“Gabe and Cochise think Daddy talks neat too.”

“They would.”

“Why?” Ringo inquired.

She squinted up at the afternoon sun before replying, the heat prickling her skin, thankful she was wearing a light, green top and brown shorts with her deer-hide sandals. Strapped around her slim waist was a Smith and Wesson .357 Combat Magnum. “The three of you are chips off the old block—”

“What?” Ringo interrupted, not understanding.

“The three of you take after your dads,” she stated. “You’re just like Hickok. Gabe is Blade all over again. I never saw any boy eat as much and grow as fast as he’s doing. And Cochise is exactly like Geronimo. Hickok, Blade, and Geronimo have been the best of friends since childhood, and I expect the three of you to follow in their footsteps.” She paused. “The Spirit help us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your daddy has an uncanny knack for getting into hot water without really trying,” she answered. “You’ll probably be the same way.”

“I hope so,” Ringo declared.

“Just what I need,” his mother muttered. She stared at the north rampart and recognized the Warrior. His muscular body was clothed in forest-green apparel. A six-inch strip of leather secured his shoulder-length blond hair in a ponytail, and his blond beard was trimmed in a jutting profile from his chin. He held a Ben Pearson compound bow in his right hand, and on his back was his quiver of versatile arrows. He saw her and waved.

“Yo, Sherry!”

“Hi, Teucer,” she called back.

“Hi, Ringo,” the bowman shouted. “How are you?”

“I miss my daddy.”

Teucer glanced at Sherry, then back at the boy. “We all do, Ringo. Don’t worry. He’ll show up. Your dad always does.”

“If he doesn’t come soon, I’ll go get him,” Ringo declared solemnly.

“Speaking of which,” Teucer said to Sherry, “what’s the word from the Elders?”

“They still won’t permit anyone to travel to Miami in the SEAL,” Sherry said. “They want us to be patient.”

“Any word on the missing jet?”

“No,” Sherry replied. “We received a communique from the Federation Council. They have no idea what happened to the missing VTOL, but they suspect the Russians may have shot it down before it reached Miami to pick up Hickok and the others.”

“Did they say why they suspect the Russians?”

“No. They promised a full report as soon as their investigation is complete.”

“I hope you hear from them soon,” Teucer commented.

“Not half as much as I do,” Sherry replied.

Teucer nodded sympathetically, gave a little wave, and proceeded to the east.

Sherry led her son to the west, strolling past imposing pines, shafts of sunlight streaming between the trees.

“Mommy?” Ringo asked.

“Yes?”

“Why didn’t Daddy and Uncle Blade take the SEAL?”

She gazed at him thoughtfully. The SEAL was yet another of the legacies bequeathed to the Family by the Founder of the survivalist retreat, Kurt Carpenter. Carpenter had spent millions to have a unique mode of transportation developed by the best scientists and engineers money could buy prior to World War Three. The result had been the SEAL, a revolutionary, vanlike, solar-powered, all-terrain vehicle. The Warriors utilized the SEAL frequently on their runs to different destinations.

“Why not Mommy?” Ringo repeated.

“Blade wanted to use one of the jets for several reasons,” Sherry informed him. “First, the VTOLs are much faster than the SEAL, and he wanted to get to Miami and return as quickly as possible. Second, they’d cut down on the number of mutants, wild animals, and whatnot they’d have to face by taking a jet. Third, the VTOLs can land anywhere. They have what’s called a vertical-takeoff-and-landing capability, so they can deposit the Warriors at any spot Blade picks.” She paused. “Blade thought he was doing the right thing. We can’t blame him for what happened.”

“I don’t.”

“Good.”

They strolled in silence for a couple of minutes, engrossed in their private reflection.

Sherry raised her head as the sounds of shouting arose from the western section of the 30-acre Home. While the eastern portion was predominantly maintained in a natural state or devoted to agriculture, and the central area was occupied by a row of log cabins running from north to south, exclusively reserved for married Family members and their children, the western section was the focal area for Family socialization.

Most Family activities transpired in the western sector. The huge concrete blocks, each one exclusively reserved for a specific function, were located there. In the middle of the west wall was the only means of entering the compound, an enormous drawbridge.

“What’s that noise?” Ringo inquired.

“I don’t know,” Sherry said. “I hope it’s not another mutant.” She hurried forward.

“Not so fast. Mommy,” Ringo complained. “I can’t keep up.”

“Sorry.”

Sherry scooped him into her arms and hastened onward, her pulse quickening, hope uplifting her emotions in a tidal wave of expectation.

Despite her normal inclination to dread the worst, deep within the core of her being, sparked by her frequently accurate feminine intuition, was the conviction that Hickok was still alive, out there somewhere. The big dummy might attract trouble like honey attracted bears, but he also was endowed with lightning reflexes and could well be the quickest gunman alive. If anyone was capable of journeying great distances across the mutant-ridden landscape, he was.

Whoops and cries of delight were mingling in the air, muted but alluring.

“Someone is having a party,” Ringo said.

“Maybe,” Sherry responded, increasing her speed. Minutes later she reached a tilled field filled with growing corn, and she headed straight through, wending among the rows of stalks.

“Mommy?”

“What?” Sherry answered absently.

“When I grow up, I want to be a Warrior like daddy and you.”

She looked into his innocent eyes and frowned. “We’ll talk about this when you’re older. A lot older.”

“Can’t I do it?”

“We’ll see.”

“Daddy and you are Warriors.”

“I know.”

“Why can’t I be one?”

“I never said you couldn’t,” Sherry said.

“You don’t want me to do it. I can tell.”

“Being a Warrior is a very dangerous profession. Your life is always on the line. I don’t know if I’d want you to have a job where you might wind up being shot.”

“But you have the same job.”

“I’m your mother.”

“Aww, gee.”

“You’re our only son, our only child,” Sherry noted. “I’m not about to agree to you having any position where your life is at risk.”

Ringo digested this information as they came to another tilled field, this one with a variety of vegetables.

Sherry bore to the left, not wanting to accidentally tread on any of the precious food.

“Mommy?”

“Yeah?”

“If the stork brings me a sister or brother, can I be a Warrior then?”