David Robbins - Seattle Run

“Any hotter than St. Louis?” Rikki rejoined.

Blade chuckled, thinking of their harrowing experiences in that city several years ago. “I doubt it. But you never can tell.”

Rikki closed his eyes. “I will go. I’ll be ready to leave at daybreak.”

“Meet me at the drawbridge,” Blade directed.

“I’ll be there,” Rikki promised.

“Bring whatever weapons you want,” Blade said. “But include an automatic rifle or a machine gun.”

“I will visit the armory later,” Rikki assured the giant.

“Thanks.” Blade started to leave, then paused. “Thanks for coming. I hope you won’t live to regret the decision.”

“Life is composed of a series of decisions,” Rikki observed philosophically. “For better or for worse, we must adjust to the consequences.”

“I’ll try to remember that if we run into trouble out there,” Blade said, “and someone or some… thing… is trying to rip my face off.”

“In which case you should bear in mind my personal code of conduct,” Rikki mentioned, the corners of his mouth curling upward.

“Your code of conduct?”

“A code I strive to live by,” Rikki disclosed. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, unless they intend to separate your soul from your body.”

“And then?” Blade asked.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi grinned. “I introduce them to my katana.”

Blade stood next to a tree bordering the western edge of the firing range, his hands on his Bowies, watching the Warrior currently using the range, his features reflecting his frank admiration.

The firing range was located in the extreme southeast corner of the compound, far from the cabins and the Blocks and those areas where the Family usually gathered. The children were dutifully instructed to keep away from the range unless accompanied by an adult. The Warriors utilized the cleared section on a regular basis to hone their skills, while the other Family members were required to participate in regularly scheduled firing lessons to familiarize themselves with firearms in case the Home was ever attacked.

A row of rusted cans had been positioned on top of a large log at the eastern edge of the range. Fifteen cans topped the brown bark at two-foot intervals.

Standing in a relaxed posture 20 yards from the log was one of the Family’s premier Warriors. In stature and physique he came close to matching Blade’s awesome build. He clothed his powerful body in a garment especially constructed by the Weavers to his specifications: a one-piece, seamless, dark-blue uniform with the ebony silhouette of a skull on the back. His eyes were a cool blue, his short hair and drooping mustache both a shade of striking silver.

While most of the Warriors specialized in one weapon or another, this one was an expert with any and all. He could handle a handgun almost as skillfully as Hickok, although he could not always match the gunfighter’s unerring accuracy. When it came to the martial arts, he could hold his own with Rikki-Tikki-Tavi. And he could wield bladed weapons with a dexterity surpassed only by the Warrior whose name was synonymous with edged arms. He was rightfully recognized as the best all-around Warrior in the Family when it came to fighting ability.

The silver-haired Warrior shifted his stance, cradling a Wilkinson Carbine with a 50-shot magazine in his brawny hands. In a shoulder holster under his left arm was a Smith and Wesson Model 586 Distinguished Combat Magnum; under his right arm was a Browning Hi-Power 9-millimeter Automatic Pistol. A curved scimitar was in a scabbard attached to a leather belt above his left hip; on his right hip was a 15-inch survival knife, a Razorback.

Blade kept his eyes on the Warrior, not the cans, knowing he would miss what was coming if he so much as blinked.

The silver-haired Warrior suddenly went into action, leveling the Wilkinson and firing from the right hip. The Carbine chattered and four of the cans were sent flying.

Unexpectedly, with the Wilkinson magazine nowhere near empty, the Warrior dropped the Carbine and drew his revolver and pistol, whipping the Smith and Wesson and the Browning clear in a cross draw. He emptied the revolver before cutting loose with the automatic, each shot on target, blowing the rest of the cans into the air with professional precision.

When the blasted cans were scattered over the soil he straightened and slowly bolstered his handguns.

Blade strolled toward the Warrior.

The silver-haired man turned. “Hello, Blade.”

“How’s it going, Yama?” Blade asked.

Yama stopped and retrieved the Wilkinson. “I’m a bit sluggish today.”

Blade glanced at the ruptured cans. “You could have fooled me,” he commented, smiling. “What were you practicing? Primary jamming?”

“Yes,” Yama replied, carefully wiping the Carbine clean.

Blade nodded. Primary jamming was a technique he’d devised to insure the Warriors could react on the spur of the moment if their primary weapon jammed, if their automatic rifle or machine gun malfunctioned while engaging the enemy. The Warriors had to be ready to resort to their secondary weapons, their handguns or whatever, automatically in a crisis.

Yama looked at Blade. “I heard you’re leaving for Seattle tomorrow.”

“Word travels fast,” Blade commented.

“I also heard some of the Warriors are going with you,” Yama remarked.

“I’m taking three,” Blade divulged.

“Any chance of taking me?” Yama queried hopefully.

“That’s why I’m here,” Blade said.

“I’d like to go along,” Yama declared.

“Any particular reason?” Blade asked.

Yama motioned toward the log. “I haven’t seen any action in ages. I’m bored to tears.”

“Is that your only reason?” Blade probed.

“Do I need more?” Yama retorted. “I’m a Warrior, like you. My craft is terminating every threat to the Family. My trade is death. Why do you think I took the name of the Hindu King of Death as my own? And I can’t perfect my craft, I can’t hone my trade, unless I’m afforded an opportunity to use my skills. This trip to Seattle could give me the chance.”

“We could face some stiff opposition,” Blade confirmed.

“The stiffer, the better,” Yama asserted earnestly.

“Be ready to go at dawn,” Blade directed. “Meet me at the drawbridge.”

Yama nodded. “I’ll be ready. Who else is going?”

“Rikki.”

“Just the three of us then?” Yama questioned.

“There will be one other,” Blade said.

“Who?”

“I don’t know yet,” Blade answered.

“Any Warrior would be happy to go,” Yama commented. “It doesn’t matter who you ask.”

Blade’s lips twitched. “I suppose,” he said casually.

Yama smiled contentedly. “I’ll be at the drawbridge at dawn.”

Blade turned to depart.

“Blade,” Yama said.

Blade glanced at the man in blue. “What?”

“Thanks for taking me,” Yama stated sincerely. “I don’t get to leave the Home as often as you do, and I’m curious about what’s out there.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Blade reminded his companion.

“I’m not a cat,” Yama said, then patted the scimitar. “And my fangs are a lot deadlier than any feline’s.”

“Keep your… fangs… handy,” Blade advised. “Seattle promises to be hazardous to your health.”

“I’m prepared for whatever comes along,” Yama declared confidently.

“Like you just said,” Blade mentioned. “You haven’t taken as many trips away from the Home as I have. You’ve been to Wyoming and you went to Denver once. There’s a lot you haven’t seen. There’s a lot you wouldn’t want to see. Monstrosities from your worst nightmares. Deviate mutants. Degenerates.” Blade shook his head. “This run to Seattle won’t be a picnic. I can feel it in my bones.”