David Robbins - Liberty Run

“I see them!” Bertha exclaimed. “Lordy! There’s a lot of them!”

Blade could see them too. Dark shadows flitting from cover to cover, slowly advancing toward the transport, illuminated by the half-moon in the eastern sky.

“What do we do?” Bertha asked.

Blade deliberated. They could stay put and trust to the SEAL to protect them from harm. But what if one of those shadows was armed with a hand grenade? What if the grenade was tossed under the SEAL, where the transport was most vulnerable? Or what if they had a bazooka? Blade considered simply driving off, but the act of starting the engine might precipitate an assault. The SEAL’s firepower was nullified by the angle the shadows were using to approach; the machine guns, the rocket launcher, and the flamethrower were all aimed to the front of the vehicle, while the shadows were coming up on the driver’s side. He had to make a decision, and he had to do it quickly. “We need a diversion, something to draw their attention while I start the SEAL.”

“Leave it to me,” Sundance said, and he was in motion even as he spoke, flinging the door open and diving to the ground.

The shadows detected the movement of the door, and a fusillade of gunfire erupted from the trees, handgun and rifle fire, the slugs striking the SEAL, many of them whining as they ricocheted.

Sundance rolled on his shoulders as he struck the earth, and he came up with a Grizzly in each hand as the shadows charged from the forest.

The Grizzlies thundered, one shot after another, eight shots in swift succession, and with every shot a shadow dropped, some screeching in agony as they fell.

Blade clutched at the ignition and twisted the key, and as the engine turned over there was a peculiar smacking sound from behind him and something wet sprayed onto his right arm and the back of his neck. He glanced over his shoulder.

Lieutenant Frol Lysenko was dead. Two of the wild shots fired by the onrushing shadows had narrowly missed Sundance and entered the open door. Lysenko had been struck in the forehead and the chin. The top slug had blown out the back of his head, splattering hair, brains, and blood over the seats. The chin shot had shattered his mouth; part of his tongue and four teeth hung by a thread of flesh from the ruined hole of his mouth.

“Sundance!” Blade bellowed. “Now!”

Sundance fired once more, downing a screaming shadow, and then he spun and vaulted into the SEAL, through the flapping door, as Blade accelerated, flooring the pedal, and the SEAL lurched ahead. Sundance landed on the floor, crouched over, his right elbow on the seat in a pool of Lysenko’s blood. He twisted and slammed the door shut.

The shadows peppered the transport with gunfire as it sped off.

Bertha stared over the pile of supplies, out the rear of the SEAL. “We’re leavin’ them turkeys in the dust!” she exclaimed.

“We’ll go another twenty miles, then stop for the night,” Blade said, abruptly noticing he’d failed to turn on the headlights, an oversight he immediately remedied. He looked over his right shoulder at the Russian.

“Damn!”

“What’s the big deal?” Bertha asked. “It couldn’t have happened to a nicer asshole!”

“We needed him,” Blade stated.

“We can get by without that dork,” Bertha said.

Sundance rose to a sitting position in the seat.

They drove in silence for several minutes.

Blade flicked on the overhead light and glanced in the rearview mirror at the dead officer. “Damn!” he fumed again. He slammed on the brakes and the transport slewed to a top. “Get him out of here!”

Sundance reached across Lysenko’s body and unlatched the far door.

He eased the door open, placed his right brown leather boot on Lysenko’s chest, and kicked.

The mortal remains of Lieutenant Frol Lysenko pitched head-first into the night.

Four days later.

“What’s the name of the town ahead?” Blade asked.

Bertha consulted the map in her lap. “It’s some dinky place called Huntsburg.” She checked the population index on the reverse side of the map. “The map doesn’t say how many people lived there before the Big Blast.”

They were in Ohio. The SEAL was idling on top of a low rise. A cluster of buildings was visible about a quarter of a mile ahead on U.S. Highway 322.

“How am I doing?” Bertha queried Blade. “Am I readin’ this sucker okay?”

“You’re doing just fine,” Blade complimented her.

Bertha grinned. “Lordy! It sure is fine knowin’ how to read!”

“You’ve come a long way,” Blade said. “I know how hard you’ve applied yourself over the past year or so, taking all of those classes. It must have been very difficult.”

“It wasn’t easy,” Bertha acknowledged. “But the Elders are good teachers.”

The Elders were responsible for the Family’s educational regimen. They taught classes on the basics, on history, geography, math, reading, writing, and more, to the family children. The Elders also offered advanced courses based on their individual expertise. The Home was unique in this respect. For most of America, public education, like all other cultural institutions, was nonexistent.

Bertha ran her left hand over the map, delighted at her progress. When she’d first arrived at the Home, she’d been illiterate. Now, thanks to the Family, she could read and write quite well. She took particular delight in signing her name, and had developed a flamboyant flourish as a token of her pride.

“Huntsburg doesn’t appear to be big enough to pose any problems,” Blade mentioned. “But stay sharp! We can’t take any chances! We learned that the other night.” He glanced in the rearview mirror at Sundance. “I know this is your first run away from the Home. You did real well against those goons, but you still don’t have any idea how rough it gets out here.

You never know when something will pop out at you. So keep your eyes open.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Sundance said.

Blade slowly drove toward Huntsburg. The four days since the last incident had been relatively uneventful. As on all his previous trips, Blade had deliberately avoided cities and large towns. Even smaller settlements, when there was any indication of habitation, were skirted. From prior harsh experience, Blade had learned the futility of foolishly relying on receiving a friendly reception anywhere . There were too many savage bands, too many scavengers, raiders, and worse roaming the landscape to permit the needless taking of any risks. Blade prevented trouble by avoiding it. The SEAL was capable of navigating any terrain, so bypassing cities and towns by swinging a loop through the contryside was an easy task. If the town or hamlet was a small one, lacking any evidence of being inhabited, Blade would gamble and drive straight through to save time.

Usually, his instincts in this regard were reliable.

But not this time.

A small business section appeared ahead. A dilapidated restaurant was on the right, a crumbling bar on the left. Ancient signs, too faint to read, adorned some of the other ramshackle structures.

“Looks like nobody’s home,” Bertha remarked.

Blade scanned the cracked sidewalks and the shattered windows.

Huntsburg seemed to be a ghost town.

“Think we can stop and stretch our legs?” Bertha asked. “It’s almost noon, and we’ve been drivin’ since dawn.”

“I don’t see why not,” Blade replied. He angled the SEAL up to the curb in front of the restaurant. “It looks like the looters tore this town apart during the war,” he noted.

“Sure is a dump now,” Bertha agreed, leaning out her open window.

Blade braked, then shut off the engine.