David Robbins - Denver Run

“Are we going to take a break or keep going?” Teucer inquired.

Blade drove past a bank, a small market, and a couple of restaurants.

Ahead, to his right, was a quaint park. “We’ll take a breather,” he replied. “I want to stretch my legs.”

There was a side street to the left.

Blade slowed and swung onto the side street. He braked the SEAL and turned off the engine. “Have them disperse around that park,” Blade instructed.

Rikki. “We won’t be staying long.” He opened his door and dropped to the ground.

The sun was bright, the air refreshingly chill and light. A raucous flock of starlings was in a nearby tree.

Blade slowly strolled along the street, his hands clasped behind his broad back.

“Do you want any of us to come with you?” Yama called out.

Blade glanced over his right shoulder.

Rikki, Yama, and Teucer were standing near the SEAL, concern on their features.

“No, thanks,” Blade responded. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

The rest of the trucks had stopped on U.S. Highway 287. The Cavalry riders were behind the troop transports.

Blade spotted an alley to his right and walked into it. Dry, reddish-brown dirt swirled around his moccasins. He strolled past several wooden-frame homes and came to a chain-link fence bordering a low wooden structure. On an impulse, he placed his hands on top of the chain-link fence and vaulted to the other side. He followed a cracked cement walk to the front of the low structure. A door to his left was hanging open. He stepped to the doorway and peered inside. The interior was dark and gloomy. Obviously, this building hadn’t been used in years and years. A fine coating of reddish dust covered everything. Sunlight streaming through two narrow windows high on the west wall revealed a wide, clear area on one side and a cluttered workshop on the other. A row of rusty tools—screwdrivers, hammers, saws, and the like—filled the top of a wooden workbench. A pair of antique sawhorses stood near the workbench.

Blade backed from the low structure and glanced at a large green house to his right. The paint on the house was chipped and worn away, particularly around the windows and the eaves. The sidewalk had buckled near the house.

Did anyone live here?

Somehow, he didn’t think so.

Curious, Blade advanced toward the house. He skirted to the left and found a large concrete porch, riddled with cracks, and a closed door.

Actually, two doors. A screen door and an inner wooden door. His right hand on the hilt of his right Bowie, Blade cautiously opened both doors with his left and slid inside, surprised they were unlocked.

The house was obviously uninhabited. Dust coated everything. There was a long white counter to his right. Suspended above the counter were white cabinets. A large metallic box stood to his left. Blade’s memory stirred. He remembered several of the photographic books in the Family library, and he was able to recognize the room he was in: it was called a kitchen, and the metal box was a refrigerator.

There was an archway to his left, and a doorway near the refrigerator.

Why wasn’t anyone living here?

Blade took a step and froze as something rattled near his feet. He glanced down.

There was a pile of human bones lying on the floor, coated with dust as was everything else, and partially covered by the faded remnants of a green shirt and a pair of jeans.

Was this the reason the home was unoccupied?

Blade peered at the whitish skull. There was a ragged, gaping cavity where the forehead had once been. He knew what could cause such a severe wound: a close-range blast from a shotgun.

Did the bones belong to the former owner of this house?

Blade moved to the archway and discovered a living room beyond.

There was an ancient sofa to the right of the archway. To the left was a wicker chair and a small oaken stand with a white telephone resting upon it. A television with a shattered screen stood on a pedestal to the right of the sofa. Against the far wall was a cabinet containing several stereo components.

The remains of four more bodies were scattered on the living room carpet, all displaying signs of having died a violent death by gunfire.

What had transpired here?

Blade walked toward a doorway on the far side of the living room, reflecting. He was fascinated by the artifacts. So this was how a typical residence had looked before the Big Blast, he thought. Quite comfy, in an ordinary sort of way.

But why all the bodies?

Blade stepped to the next doorway and found a bedroom, a smaller room harboring an unmade bed and a vanity, two wooden dressers, and a large maple cabinet. Again, on the opposite side of the room was a doorway, only this time the door was closed.

Five more skulls leered up from the beige carpet, all of them situated near the closed door.

One thing was obvious: there had been one hell of a fight in this house.

But why?

Blade approached the closed door, his right hand on his Bowie. What was beyond the door? Why had five people perished attempting to get through it?

There was only one way to find out.

Blade gripped the doorknob and turned, slowly pulling the door open.

The hinges creaked as the door swung out.

More barren bones. Four skulls and a pile of bones and old clothing formed a compact heap just inside the doorway.

What a struggle this must have been!

But the paramount question still remained: why?

Blade entered, then stopped, perplexed.

This room was the smallest of them all, not much more than 8 feet wide by 20 feet long. Shelves of books lined every wall. There was a large wooden desk in the middle of the room, and on top of the desk was a green typewriter with a sheet of paper under a paper bail.

This was it?

This was what 14 people had died for?

Blade spotted a framed photograph on the wall above the desk. He moved closer. It was a picture of a man, a woman, and their children. The woman was exceptionally attractive, with an open, honest expression. The man bordered on the lean side. He wore a shiny metallic object on his nose, and it took Blade a moment to remember what the object was: a pair of glasses.

Were these the former owners?

He glanced at the paper in the typewriter. There was some faint printing on the sheet. He brushed the ominipresent dust aside and leaned over. The subdued light from a window near the desk illuminated the paper.

Karen and Mark and Don and Chris:

If you’re reading this, it means you’ve missed us and we are on our way to our cabin in the high country. We will stay there until you catch up. As you can tell by all the bodies, a band of looters attacked while we were packing. Not to worry. Ann and the kids are fine. I have a few scratches.

Meet us at the cabin and watch out for the creeps!

Larry Blade sat down in a chair alongside the desk and gazed at the photograph on the wall. Was the man in the picture the one called Larry?

What had he done for a living? By what miracle had he protected his family from so many looters? Had all of this happened at the outset of the war? Was the house now shunned because of all the skeletons?

Watch out for the creeps, the man had said.

He sounded a little like Hickok.

They must have been extremely close-knit, this family. The man had valiantly defended them against superior odds. But wasn’t that what familial relationships were all about? Loving selfishly. Putting the welfare of your loved ones first. Doing whatever was necessary to insure their happiness.

Doing whatever was necessary…

Blade frowned. Why hadn’t he seen it earlier? If you truly love someone, they always come first. No matter what. You do whatever you must for them, even if it’s something you don’t necessarily want to do.