David Robbins - Citadel Run

“I sense danger,” the Empath announced for the benefit of the three other occupants of the green vehicle.

Immediately, the muscular driver of the van-like transport applied the brakes, bringing the SEAL to an abrupt stop in the middle of the road. His brawny hands deftly twisted the steering wheel, angling the vehicle, enabling him to see in both directions without turning in his seat. His penetrating gray eyes scanned their immediate vicinity as he ran his left hand through his thick dark hair. The driver wore green fatigue pants and a black leather vest, and he was armed with a pair of Bowie knives, one strapped to each hip. “Are you certain, Joshua?” he asked the Empath.

Joshua nodded, his long brown hair bobbing on his narrow shoulders, his brown eyes partially closed as he concentrated his mental powers on the emanations he was receiving. He wore a blue shirt and brown pants, the front of the shirt covered by a large Latin cross he wore suspended from around his neck. “I’m positive, Blade. I’m picking up definite hostility, although I am unable to pinpoint the precise source.”

“Maybe your battery needs recharging, pard.” commented a blond man in buckskins, a lean figure with broad shoulders and a matched set of pearl-handled Colt Python revolvers in the holsters of his gunbelt. His right hand stroked his sweeping blond moustache as he looked around. “I don’t see a critter stirrin’ out there.”

“Just this once, Hickok,” groused the fourth occupant of the transport, a stocky Indian with brown eyes and black hair, wearing frayed green pants and a shin, both constructed from an old canvas tent, “I wish you’d use normal English like the rest of us. If I hang around you long enough, I’m likely to start talking like you do.”

“So what’s wrong with the way I talk?” Hickok demanded.

“Oh, nothing, really,” responded his friend. “But I don’t want my wife to think I’m a dimwit.”

“Are you implying, Geronimo, old buddy,” Hickok said, glancing at his closest companion in the entire world, “that I’m a dimwit?”

Geronimo chuckled. “Does a bear crap in the woods?”

“I don’t need this aggravation,” Hickok stated, feigning annoyance. “I get enough of it from my wife, you know.”

Blade gazed fondly at the gunman, grinning. Hickok was seated in a bucket seat directly across from him. Between them was a console, and behind them was another seat running the width of the vehicle. Geronimo sat directly behind Hickok, Joshua behind Blade. The rear section of the SEAL was devoted to storage space.

The SEAL.

Blade stared at the dashboard. Thank the Founder for the transport!

Without it, traveling over the countryside would be extremely precarious, what with the ravaging mutates, the scavengers, and all the other deviates waiting to kill you at a moment’s notice. Kurt Carpenter had been the Founder, and he had wisely foreseen his beloved Family’s need for a superior vehicle, a mode of transportation capable of withstanding the structural stress, the hostile environment, and the harshly altered terrain existing after World War III. Carpenter had spent millions on the design and building of his prototype, incorporating various unique features and special capabilities. His Solar-Energized Amphibious or Land Recreational vehicle was now known by the acronym SEAL. The transport’s body was composed of a nearly indestructible tinted plastic, enabling anyone inside the SEAL to see outside clearly, but preventing someone outside the transport from viewing the interior. Carpenter had known that gas and oil would be difficult to obtain after the collapse of civilization, so he had instructed his scientists and engineers to power the SEAL by solar energy, utilizing two solar panels attached to the roof. The energy was converted and stored in a bank of six revolutionary batteries positioned in a lead-lined case under the vehicle. Four huge tires, constructed of an impervious synthetic, enabled the SEAL to traverse obstacles conventional vehicles could never overcome. After the SEAL had been produced, Carpenter had employed the services of several military specialists, skilled mercenaries whose talents could be purchased for a high enough price, and had had them install certain advanced weapons systems in the prototype.

Kurt Carpenter, Blade thankfully reflected, had seldom missed a trick.

“So what’s the plan?” Hickok asked Blade. “Do we cool our heels here or keep going into the Twin Cities?”

Blade pondered the gunfighter’s query. As the head of Alpha Triad, the Warrior unit comprised of Hickok, Geronimo, and himself, Blade was responsible for making decisions and directing their actions. Indeed, as the chief Warrior for the entire Family, Blade was dedicated to preserving the security of the Home, their thirty-acre survival site in extreme northwestern Minnesota, and insuring the safety of the Family, the descendants of Kurt Carpenter’s initial survivalist group.

“It must be close to noon,” Geronimo noted, gazing out at the late October sky. “Plenty of time for us to contact Zahner and the rest.”

“And don’t forget Bertha,” Joshua added, casting a thoughtful glance at Hickok.

Hickok noticed the look. “Why’d you stare at me when you said that?”

he gruffly inquired.

Joshua shrugged and quickly diverted his attention to the road ahead.

“No reason,” he answered.

“You sure?” Hickok pressed him.

“Leave him alone,” Blade interjected. “He didn’t mean anything. Just because you’re nervous about seeing Bertha again is no…”

“Who’s nervous?” Hickok interrupted. “Bertha will understand. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

“If you ask me,” Geronimo amended, “you’ll be wearing cake all over your face when she’s through with you.”

“I didn’t ask you,” Hickok glumly retorted. He angrily glared at the buildings in front of them. “Blast it! Why’d I agree to come back here? I should be at the Home with my missus, eating her cooking and taking it easy. Why’d I come back?” he inquired of no one in particular.

“Because you had to return,” Blade stated, his mind reviewing the reason for Alpha Triad’s previous trip to the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, a distance of some three hundred and seventy miles from their Home. About two months ago, the Family Leader, a wise, wizened, elderly man by the name of Plato, had sent Alpha Triad and Joshua to the Twin Cities for urgently needed medical and scientific equipment and supplies. Plato had hoped Minneapolis and St. Paul would still be intact, untouched by the scavengers and the looters, at least enough to permit Alpha Triad to locate the items needed in abandoned hospitals or universities. Unfortunately, the Leader’s assumption had proven to be erroneous. Alpha Triad had found the Twin Cities in a virtual shambles.

Most of the buildings had been standing since Minneapolis and St. Paul had been spared a direct hit during World War III, but the structures had been in utter disrepair, with a few exceptions, and the contents of all the buildings had long since been used or destroyed by the four factions fighting for control of the Twin Cities.

Blade sighed. A lot could happen in a century, and in the one hundred years since the Big Blast—as the Family usually referred to the Third World War—the Twin Cities had been ravaged by the constant warfare between the four feuding groups.

“I just saw something move,” Geronimo declared, leaning forward and pointing ahead and to their right. “Behind that overgrown excuse for a hedgerow.”

“Wacks, maybe?” Hickok speculated, retrieving his Navy Arms Henry Carbine from the console.