David Robbins - Denver Run

“Do you think you have enough?” Zahner queried.

Spartacus shrugged. “Don’t know for sure. Kurt Carpenter, our Founder, stocked our armory with hundreds of weapons. He said in his diary he knew civilization would decline after the Big Blast, and he wanted us to be able to protect ourselves.”

“What’s the Big Blast?” Brother Timothy asked.

Spartacus grinned. “It’s how we refer to World War III.”

“Cute,” Brother Timothy said.

“Get your people lined up,” Spartacus reiterated to Zahner. “I’ll divide them up among the four walls. As for the children and other noncombatants, put them in F Block. It’s furthest from the walls. If they won’t all fit, then put the rest in D Block.”

“Will do,” Zahner said and turned. He hurried off, Bear and Brother Timothy in tow.

Boone, his thumbs looped under his brown belt, strolled up to Spartacus. “Kilrane told me to put myself and my men at your disposal. What would you like us to do?”

“Can you have your men ready to leave before dark?” Spartacus inquired.

“We’re ready to go anytime,” Boone replied. “We’re Cavalry,” he added proudly.

“Good. I want you to get as close to the enemy convoy as you can. See if you can get a reliable count on their number, and find out if they have any artillery with them.”

Boone beamed. “Some action, at last! We’re on our way!” He ran off.

Spartacus heard a slight cough behind him and turned.

Plato was standing a few feet to his rear, his hands clasped behind his stooped back, smiling.

“What’s so funny?” Spartacus inquired, puzzled.

“Oh, nothing,” the Family Leader responded. “I’m merely happy to perceive the Family is in such capable hands.”

Spartacus glanced around to insure they were alone. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said softly, “but I’ve never been so nervous in my life!”

“That’s encouraging,” Plato stated.

“Encouraging?” Spartacus repeated. “Why?”

“It would be extremely unusual if you weren’t nervous,” Plato said.

“Being nervous at a time like this is normal. If you weren’t nervous, I’d begin to suspect something was wrong with you.”

Spartacus stared at the drawbridge, then scanned the rampart above it.

“I can hardly believe the Home is going to be attacked.”

“It is,” Plato declared. “Which reminds me. Where do you want the Family’s noncombatants?”

“I’d say B Block,” Spartacus answered, “but I think it’s too close to the west wall. How about putting them in the cabins in the middle of the compound?”

Plato nodded. “A commendable choice. Where do you want me?”

“In the cabins with the older men and women and the children.”

Plato’s eyebrows arched upward. “What?”

Spartacus cleared his throat. “In the cabins,” he repeated.

“I can still handle a firearm,” Plato said with a trace of indignation.

Spartacus walked up to Plato and gently placed his right hand on the Leader’s left shoulder. “I know you can. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings.

But I can’t allow anything to happen to you. We really won’t need you on the walls.”

“I will not tolerate any special treatment,” Plato declared testily.

“Plato,” Spartacus said tenderly, “you are the heart and soul of our Family. The Family would go to pieces if you died—”

“Nonsense!” Plato snapped.

“I’m doing what I think best for the Family,” Spartacus told him. “Blade would do the same thing if he were here.”

“I won’t hide in the cabins!” Plato countered.

“I’m not asking you to hide,” Spartacus informed him. “Making sure the women and children remain as calm as possible is an important task.

You won’t be alone. Ten of the men will be assigned to defend the cabins to their dying breath. You will be in charge of them.”

“I will?”

“You will,” Spartacus affirmed.

“Well, in that case,” Plato reluctantly concurred.

“I’m going to be busy at the armory,” Spartacus mentioned. “Would you take care of getting the women and children to the cabins?”

“I would be delighted,” Plato said, and walked off.

Spartacus turned and surveyed the frantic activity taking place in the compound. Was there anything he had missed? Boone and the other Cavalrymen were preparing to depart on their reconnaissance patrol.

Plato was going to make sure all of the Family’s children and other noncombatants took shelter in the cabins. The Clan’s children, some of their women, and their few elderly would be somewhat secure in F Block.

So what did that leave him?

He could expect 220 fighters from the Clan, women and men. If he took 10 of the Family’s men and assigned them to protect the cabins, he was left with 55 men and women from the Family capable of manning the walls. Not counting the Warriors or the 21 Cavalrymen, he had 275 combatants at his disposal.

No!

Wait!

About ten of the Family’s members were too old. He would need to put them in the cabins, as he had told Plato he would.

Spartacus completed his mental calculations. If he had 265 fighters, and there were four walls to man, he could position 66 on each wall.

Only 66! Was that all?

Spartacus, like every member of the Family, had been raised in a deeply religious environment. The Founder, Kurt Carpenter, had advised his followers to cultivate an abiding spiritual faith in their offspring.

Carpenter maintained that a strong faith was essential for the development of noble character and wisdom. He instructed all parents to promote their children’s spiritual inclinations. Carpenter firmly prohibited the establishment of an official Family religion; each individual was free to select whatever theology he or she wanted. Consequently, it was with complete reverence and respect that Spartacus gazed skyward, trying to compose his racing thoughts and offer a heartfelt prayer to the Spirit.

But try as he might, there was only one plea he could think of.

One simple word.

Help!

“What the blazes are we gonna do now?” the gunman demanded.

“You’re the one who wanted to come this way,” Geronimo retorted. “I said we should swing to the north, but nooooo! Mr. Know-It-All had to do it his way!”

Hickok pounded the dashboard in frustration. “How the heck was I supposed to know they’d be here! They could’ve gone another way, you know?”

“Oh, yeah? With all the trucks they’ve got? And a tank? Did you expect them to take a back road?”

The troop transport was parked on the shoulder of U.S. Highway 59, slightly over four miles south of Halma. The road ahead curved around a wooded section. Camped a quarter of a mile beyond was the Civilized Zone convoy.

Sitting on the seat between the two Warriors, his hands and feet bound and a cloth gag jammed into his mouth, was Mitchell.

Hickok glanced at the trooper. “We’re gonna have to leave you for a spell.” He opened the driver’s door. “No hard feelings about this?” He leaned over and groped under the seat for a moment. Smiling, he straightened, holding a rifle in his right hand.

Geronimo opened his door and dropped to the road.

“I hope you don’t have to tinkle anytime soon,” Hickok said to Mitchell.

He winked and jumped to the ground, closing the door behind him after he landed.

Geronimo walked around the front of the troop transport. “So what’s your great plan?”

“I don’t have one,” Hickok admitted, wiping a dirt smudge from the stock of his Navy Arms Henry Carbine.

Geronimo hefted his FNC Auto Rifle. “No plan, huh?”

“Nope.” Hickok grinned. “I’ll do what I always do.”