David Robbins - The Fox Run

“One more crack from you,” Blade said, smiling, “and this loco is going to see if you’d like having pearl handles for your supper.”

Hickok laughed. “Now that that’s settled, shouldn’t someone go tell the Family everything is fine? They had to hear the shots.”

“I’ll go,” Joshua volunteered, and jogged towards the digging site.

“I should bury the remains,” Geronimo said. “I’ll get a shovel and be right back.” He departed.

“We’ve got most of the food packed,” Hickok informed Blade. “Come and check it when you want.” He strolled off.

“I can’t get over the way he constantly picks on you,” Jenny said, criticizing Hickok. “Why in the world does he do it?”

“Because he cares,” Blade answered.

“You call that caring?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Nathan has a funny way of showing he cares for someone. He’s always riding you.” Jenny wouldn’t let the matter rest.

Blade retrieved the Vega automatics. “Jenny, he doesn’t ride me any worse than he rides himself. You’ve got to understand that Hickok has trouble relating to people. He likes to get his guns do his talking, and you can only do that with your enemies. He’s uncomfortable around his friends because he has difficulty showing he cares, and he tries to mask his genuine feelings behind a flippant attitude and wisecracks. Believe me, Hickok would give his life, gladly, for any member of the Family. That’s one of the reasons he makes such an outstanding Warrior.”

“If you say so,” Jenny said, her tone implying she had her doubts. “I just can’t understand what Joan sees in him.”

“Ask her,” Blade advised, scouring the trees, searching for any sign of life, wondering if other mutates were lurking in the foliage. Highly unlikely. Mutates never stopped hunting, never ceased seeking flesh to consume. If any were still in the trees, they would be coming after the humans as precipitously as the red squirrel had done.

“Hickok mentioned the frog that attacked us.” Jenny was staring at the dead squirrel. “If memory serves, that was about eighteen months ago. Right?”

“Right,” Blade agreed.

“We know the frog clambered out of the moat,” Jenny continued her line of reasoning. “How do you suppose this squirrel got in here?”

“I wish I knew.”

Jenny gazed at the distant walls. “Do you think it could get over the walls? Could there be enough for its claws to grip?”

“I don’t know.” Blade had seen squirrels perform remarkable climbing feats, including running straight up the trunk of tall trees. The walls protecting the Home were constructed of brick, the joints even and the mortar smooth. How could a squirrel get inside the Home?

“I don’t believe the mutate came over the walls.” Geronimo was back, bearing a shovel, and he had overheard the last part of their conversation.

“You don’t?” Jenny asked.

“Look at the mutate,” Geronimo directed. “Very closely.”

Blade crouched and studied the squirrel, and only then did he notice that this mutate was unique, different from any other mutate he had ever seen. “It’s half and half,” he observed.

“I saw the difference earlier,” Geronimo said.

The red squirrel was a mutate, but not a complete mutate. Only the right side, the paws, the spine, and the left side of the rodent were deformed, oozing pus, covered with sores and dry brown skin. The rest of the red was your typical squirrel, covered with normal reddish brown fur.

“I’ve never heard of one like that,” Jenny remarked.

“Neither have I.” Blade stood. “We should inform Plato about this.”

Joshua came jogging up to them. “Plato wants everyone at the digging site. They are ready to open a chamber they’ve uncovered,” he announced.

“We can’t leave this lying here in the open,” Blade said, pointing out the obvious.

“Some of the children might stumble across it.” Jenny underlined his meaning.

“I’ll bury the mutate,” Geronimo offered. “We can advise Plato about it after this mystery chamber is opened.”

“Want us to wait for you?” Blade asked him.

Geronimo shook his head. “It won’t take long. You’d better be on hand when Plato unveils his secret.”

Jenny took Blade’s hand. “First, we’ll stop and grab you a shirt.”

Joshua was already returning to the pit.

Jenny was eager to reach the uncovered chamber, and she hurried, pulling Blade along.

Blade smiled back at Geronimo.

Geronimo grinned and bent to the task of burying the mutate.

Blade put the red squirrel from his mind for the time being, speculating on the chamber they were about to open. Was he right? Was it some kind of vehicle the Founder had buried for a special purpose? If so, and if Plato was aware of it, why hadn’t he informed any other Family members?

Possibly, Blade reflected, Plato was afraid some of the Family might be tempted to use whatever it was before it was really needed.

Jenny cast a backward glance at Geronimo and the squirrel. “I just hope there aren’t any more mutates in the Home,” she said.

Blade gritted his teeth at the idea. You and me both, he thought to himself, then repeated it out loud for her benefit. “You and me both.”

How he hated the damn things!

The Family had completely uncovered the opening to the underground chamber, and tied lengths of stout rope to the three iron rings imbedded in the concrete. Ten men were assigned to each rope, and they now held the rope in their hands, their legs braced, awaiting the command to pull.

Plato gave it. He raised his left hand over his head. “On the count of three,” he shouted for all to hear. “One.” The men tensed and tightened their respective grips. “Two.” He saw Blade and Jenny press their way to the front of those surrounding the pit. Hickok stood off to one side, his hands looped under his belt buckle. Joshua was standing quietly in the center of the crowd. “Three!” Plato called.

The men dug their heels into the ground and pulled, their muscles straining, a determined set to their features.

Nothing happened.

“Pull!” someone shouted. “Pull!”

The men grunted and heaved, exerting all of their strength.

Plato knew the door was designed to swivel outward when the rings were pulled on. Had the mechanism rusted or broken, preventing the door from operating properly? To be so close!

“It’s working!” a Family member yelled.

Everyone heard a loud, grating, grinding metallic noise as the massive recessed hinges, unused and unlubricated for a century, protested a slight movement. The entranceway jerked open several feet and stopped, resisting further tugging on the ropes. A sibilant hissing, similar to the sound of steam escaping from a boiling pot of water, could be clearly heard.

“Keep at it!” another person goaded the men on the ropes.

The hissing, still audible, was decreasing in intensity.

The rope pullers were striving with all their might.

The hissing had stopped. Plato speculated it had been the sound of air being drawn into the chamber, or expelled from it, probably the former.

The hinges squeaked as the door began swinging out and down. It was designed to pivot completely outward and rest on the ground.

A dozen excited voices were urging the men on.

The entranceway was now open a good six feet, and the more it opened, the less the hinges scraped, and the easier it become to pull on the ropes.

“It’s going!” a woman enthused.

It did. With a resounding thud, the entranceway swung fully open and landed on the rough ground. The men nearest the door had to scramble backwards to get out of the way in time.