David Robbins - The Kalispell Run

“Do others feel the same way about the Doktor as you do?”

“Some, yes,” Angier said. “Not everyone. The man is an inhuman genius. He’s the brains behind the chemical clouds.”

“The chemical clouds?”

Angier suddenly motioned for silence. “Did you just hear something?”

“No,” Blade replied. “Like what?”

“Movement,” Angier said, glancing outside and scanning the nearest vegetation, several trees and bushes, for signs of life. “If that freak transmits any of this, I’m as good as dead.”

“Transmits? How?”

“I told you before. That damn collar!”

“The collar is a transmitter?”

“That metal collar is how the Doktor controls his freaks,” Angier detailed. “His earlier creatures, like the Rovers, just wore leather collars.

But the newer ones are intelligent, capable of thinking for themselves. To keep them in line, to ensure they’ll always do his bidding, he fits them with special collars. The collars somehow carry an electronic impulse of some kind to the freaks from the Doktor’s headquarters. I heard they can pick it up right through their skin. He tells them what to do, and if they don’t do it the way he wants, he zaps them, causes intense pain and agony. The collars also transmit sound to the Doktor, so he can keep tabs on what’s going on around his little pets. Of course, he’s got almost fifteen hundred of the things, and he can’t monitor them all at once, but you never know which ones he might be monitoring at any given moment. You never know if the Doktor is listening to you.”

Blade took notice of the darkening evening sky. It was about time to make his move. “Why don’t these creatures simply remove the collars?”

“Some tried. But they were killed by an electric shock. Now they all know better. They may want to make a break for it, to gain their freedom, but the collars contain a sensing device. If the collar senses someone is trying to take it off, there’s a crackling and a burst of white light and the creature’s head is fried to a crisp. I know. Saw it happen once.” Angier shuddered at the repulsive memory.

Blade’s arms were dripping sweat and his wrists felt bloody, but at long last his efforts were rewarded. “I want to thank you, again, for taking all this time to talk to me.”

“It was nothing,” Angier gruffly responded. “You guessed right. I was bored to tears. Now I want you to answer some questions for me.”

“Sorry.”

The Lieutenant faced Blade. “What the hell do you mean, you’re sorry? I took the time…”

“And I appreciate it,” Blade interjected, “more than you’ll ever know.”

“…so why aren’t you going to give me the courtesy of answering my questions?”

“Because I have something else for you.”

“Like what?”

“You see,” Blade said, leaning forward, flexing his arm muscles to restore the circulation, “the whole time you were talking, I was working on this big surprise for you. I’d never have been able to do it without your help.”

“What the hell are you babbling about? What surprise?” Angier demanded.

“This,” Blade stated, bringing his torn and chafed hands around in front of his massive chest, the rope dangling from his left arm. “Surprise!” he grinned.

Angier lunged for his M-16.

“How far do you figure we’ve walked?” the gunman asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Maybe five or six miles.”

“I wonder how far underground we are?”

“If you don’t shut up,” Goldman snapped, “I’ll plant you underground right here!”

“You know something, pard,” Hickok said to Goldman, “you’re all mouth!”

Goldman glared over his left shoulder at the Warrior, but he kept walking.

Hickok laughed, taunting him. They were in a well-lit tunnel, on their way to an audience with Wolfe, the Mole leader. Goldman led their column, followed by Watson, Silvester, Sherry, and himself. Behind him, ten armed Moles provided an escort.

“It seems like we’ve been down here for hours,” Sherry wearily remarked.

“We’re really not that far under the surface,” Silvester mentioned. “Only a couple of dozen feet. We found if we dig too deep, our air shafts don’t work too well.”

“I’m still amazed at what you’ve accomplished,” Sherry said.

Watson glanced back at her. “Remember, we’ve had about a hundred years to work on this.”

“It shows,” Sherry told him.

Hickok had to agree. It certainly did show. The area under the Mound, and apparently for miles in either direction, was a veritable maze of tunnels, an elaborate network of shafts. Each tunnel was named, indicated by signs at the junctions, exactly as the streets in any city or town. The ceilings and the floors of the tunnels were boarded over; sometimes the side walls would be, sometimes they wouldn’t. Lighting was provided by crude candles placed in recessed receptacles at regular intervals. Hickok recognized the type of candle used; the Family employed a similar one, prepared by heating great, reeking gobs of animal fat until it liquified, then filtering the substance through dried grasses or reeds until you refined the pure tallow. Before the tallow hardened, you inserted a rope wick. Crude, yes, but effective. The candles did have one definite drawback; they stank to high heaven.

“Where do you get all this wood?” Sherry was asking.

“Do you realize how much forest there is in Minnesota?” Watson jokingly responded.

Rooms and larger chambers opened off the tunnels periodically. Some seemed to be public meeting places; others were apparently private domiciles. Children played in the tunnels, giggling and contented. Older Moles stared curiously at the newcomers as they marched to meet Wolfe.

Whatever he might think of their aggressive tactics and the sheer stupidity of living underground when there was abundant sunlight and fresh air up above, Hickok had to admit their system worked for them. As old Plato might say, the Moles had a viable social order, even if it was basically parasitical. He wondered how Plato was faring, whether the senility was continuing to debilitate the beloved Family Leader.

They reached a major intersection, four tunnels meeting at one point, and stopped. Huge wooden beams supported the arched roof.

“This way,” Goldman announced, and led them to the right.

“How much farther is it?” Sherry complained. “I could use some rest.”

“Not much farther,” Goldman replied. He turned, grinning. “In fact, we’re here.”

Their forward path was completely blocked by a ponderous wooden wall. In the center of the wall, flanked by six armed Moles, was a door.

Watson glanced at Hickok and Sherry. “Whatever you do,” he said, his voice low, “don’t antagonize Wolfe. He may let you live.”

“You got it backward, pard,” Hickok stated.

“Hickok, please!” Sherry pleaded. “Don’t pull another lame-brained stunt like you did with Goldman.”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” the gunman remarked.

Goldman addressed one of the door guards, and the guard promptly opened the door and stood to one side, at attention.

Goldman motioned at the doorway. “After you,” he directed.

Watson went first, followed by Hickok and Sherry. Silvester nervously hung back, reluctant to enter, until Goldman grabbed him by the right arm and shoved him through the doorway.

“Incredible!” Sherry exclaimed as they entered.

The chamber was immense, the walls, floor, and ceiling all constructed of smooth stone and mortar. A skylight fitted into the top of a vaulted roof served to adequately illuminate the audience room.

“Took us about two years to build this,” Watson said to Sherry. “We found an abandoned quarry with a lime deposit, and mixed the lime with sand from a former highway-construction site. The water needed to achieve the bonding blend was easy to acquire.” He proudly surveyed the chamber. “Yes, the mortar was easy compared to the arduous task of carting tons of stone here. We salvaged the skylight from a building in Bemidji.”