David Robbins: Citadel Run

“Couldn’t tell,” Geronimo replied.

The Wacks! Blade grit his teeth and suppressed a shudder. During his last trip here he’d been captured by the Wacks and had almost lost his life.

In fact, all four of them had nearly bought the farm. He mentally envisioned the layout of the Twin Cities, preparing himself.

The former metropolis was divided up into four different turfs by the four factions. The Wacks were based in southern Minneapolis, and were the descendants of the former residents of the Minnesota Hospital for the Criminally Insane. They were pitiful, demented cannibals, scrounging for any food they could find, attired in rags and armed with everything from bricks to pitchforks. The second group was called the Horns, and they occupied most of St. Paul. They were a strict religious sect, the descendants of a church leader who had stubbornly refused to evacuate his congregation when ordered to do so by the Government at the outset of the war. The third clique was called the Porns by the residents of the Twin Cities, and they controlled western Minneapolis. They were the descendants of a drug and pornography kingpin. The final faction, holding most of northern Minneapolis, was the Nomads, made up of former Horns and Porns, people weary of the incessant fighting and longing for a better life.

“I don’t see the reason for any alarm even though I sense danger,” Joshua was saying, interrupting Blade’s reverie. “We did achieve a truce among the Horns, the Porns, and the Nomads, didn’t we? We promised them we’d lead them out of the Twin Cities and aid them in beginning a new life, possibly in one of the small towns situated near our Home. They all eagerly embraced our proposal. So why should you be so tense?”

“We’re Warriors, Josh,” Hickok answered. “We’re trained to expect the worst.”

“How sad,” Joshua said, frowning. “Surely you must realize how warped your orientation is, speaking from a totally spiritual perspective.”

“You may have a point, Big Words,” Hickok admitted, “but this warped orientation of ours has kept us alive. Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

“I have tried it,” Joshua reminded the gunman, “and I didn’t like it.”

“Can we save this philosophical discussion until later?” Geronimo suggested. “I just spotted someone behind that tree over there.” He indicated a large maple to their left.

“Orders, Blade?” Hickok requested.

Blade pondered their course of action, studying the nearby trees and shrubs, searching for signs of movement, for any indication of hostility.

Joshua did have a point; they had arranged a temporary truce among three of the four groups, so it was unlikely they would be attacked by the Porns, the Horns, or the Nomads. The Wacks, the crazies, were another matter. But did they range this far north?

The SEAL was parked in the center of State Highway 47, between 73rd and 71st Avenues, not all that far from where the Nomad camp was located, on the eastern shore of Moore Lake in Fridley.

What to do? Blade asked himself. They couldn’t be more than two miles from the camp. Should they simply continue on their way and disregard whoever was lurking outside? After all, with the transport’s impervious body, they were relatively secure from any assault. He was about to gun the engine when he remembered a pertinent fact; no one in the Twin Cities knew about the SEAL! When Alpha Triad had visited the Twins last, they’d hidden the vehicle as a safety precaution before venturing into the city. So, if they were now in Nomad territory, the ones outside could well be Nomads unaware of the SEAL’s connection to the Family. The Nomads might well believe that the transport was operated by Government troops, the soldiers known as the Watchers.

“You daydreaming?” Hickok goaded Blade.

“He’s probably thinking about Jenny,” Geronimo wryly observed, referring to Blade’s wife. “His hormones are undoubtedly going haywire. After all, he hasn’t seen her for two whole days.”

Blade ignored their barbs and lifted his Auto-Ordnance Model 27 A-1 from the console. The A-1 had been modified by the Family Gunsmiths so it could function on full automatic. Hickok, the Family’s leading expert on firearms, had personally selected the A-1 for Blade. It was a re-creation of a gun known as a Thompson submachine gun, and Hickok had chosen it because the A-1’s awesome firepower would tend to compensate for Blade’s lack of marksmanship. In addition to the A-1 and his Bowies, Blade carried a Dan Wesson .44 Magnum in a shoulder holster under his left arm.

Geronimo was armed with his inevitable tomahawk tucked under the front of his leather belt. An Arminius .357 Magnum was in a holster under his right arm, and he held an FNC Auto Rifle in his hands as he alertly surveyed the surrounding area.

Joshua had been provided with an M-16 confiscated from one of the Government soldiers, but the rifle was lying in the rear section of the SEAL, a testimony to Joshua’s detestation of all weaponry.

“We’ll try and contact them,” Blade said, slowly rolling down his window.

“Keep your head down,” Hickok advised. “If they’re packin’, they’ll blow your head off, pard.”

Blade lowered his chest over the steering wheel and turned to shout out the window. “Hey! We know you’re out there! We come in peace! My name is Blade! If you’re Nomads, let us know! We won’t harm you!” he promised.

“You know,” Hickok mentioned, “the Nomads never saw you, only Josh and me.”

“Hickok is in here with me!” Blade yelled. “Do you remember Hickok?”

“How could anyone forget him?” Geronimo interjected. “Flamboyant personalities like his are hard to forget.”

“Well, thank you, pard.” Hickok beamed.

Geronimo snapped his fingers. “Oh! I’m sorry! I meant to say flamboyant stupidity.”

“There doesn’t seem to be any response to your greeting,” Joshua noted to Blade.

Blade rolled his window up.

Joshua reached for the door handle.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Hickok promptly demanded.

Joshua paused. “To step outside and meet whoever is out there.”

“Stay where you are,” Blade ordered.

“But this is why I’m here,” Joshua protested. “Didn’t Plato send me along as an ambassador of the Family?”

“Yes, he did,” Blade conceded.

“Didn’t Plato want someone who would extend the hand of friendship instead of the barrel of a gun?” Joshua queried.

“Yes,” Blade allowed.

“Someone who wouldn’t be inclined to shoot first, then ask questions later?”

“Yes,” Blade reluctantly acknowledged.

Joshua smiled. “So it’s obvious I’m the one to greet whoever is out there.” He started to open the door.

“Stay where you are,” Blade repeated.

Joshua stopped, glancing at the massive Warrior, his brow furrowed. “I don’t understand. I thought you just said…”

“I admit everything you’ve said is true,” Blade said cutting him off.

“Plato has designated you as the Family’s official good will ambassador…”

“So?”

“So I can’t let you step outside.” Blade motioned for Joshua to sit back in his seat. “Joshua, you’re our ambassador, true, but you’re also one of the six Empaths iti the Family, one of the half-dozen blessed with inexplicable psychic capabilities. You may be the youngest and least experienced of the Empaths, but you’re still able to perceive things a normal person like Hickok, Geronimo, and I can’t.”

“Did I hear right?” Geronimo spoke up. “Did you just call Hickok normal?”

The gunfighter pretended to glare at Geronimo.

“You told us moments ago you sense danger out there,” Blade said to Joshua. “Danger is our province, not yours. You will remain in the SEAL until we ascertain if your psychic impression was accurate.”