David Robbins: The Fox Run

The Warrior Class was well trained.

While Hickok checked the dogs, Geronimo kept alert, scanning the tree line, prepared for any assault. In contrast to the blond, thin Hickok, Geronimo was stocky and had black hair. Where Hickok had blue eyes, Geronimo had brown. Where Hickok was tall, Geronimo was short. Where Hickok had long hair and a moustache like his hero, Geronimo wore his hair cut short and his face was clean shaven. And what Geronimo lacked in ability with a handgun, he more than made up for in other areas.

Geronimo was the Family’s supreme tracker, a lingering legacy of his Indian heritage. Geronimo was proud of the Indian in his blood, despite the fact that Plato had informed him his blood contained, at most, one-eighth Blackfoot inheritance. Geronimo could hunt, he was immensely strong, and his eyesight was spectacular at great distances. He was their best trapper, his trap line in the winter months often being their single largest supplier of fresh meat and new skins. Even in the worst of weather, Geronimo would return with food.

Blade, his grey eyes twinkling, motioned at the slain dogs. “Don’t think I’m not grateful for the timely rescue, but how in the world did you know where to find me? Lucky?”

“Design, Plato would say,” Geronimo replied.

“What’s that mean?”

“It means,” Hickok interjected, “that Hazel told us where to find you.

Specifically, which direction you would be coming from. The timing was strictly ours. I’m just glad we didn’t stop to relieve ourselves.”

Hazel. Blade had experienced the results of her unique power several times in the past. Hazel’s official title was Chief Family Empath. The Family was blessed, currently, with six individuals with psychic capabilities. Hazel was the oldest, the one with the most sensitive nature.

“Why was Hazel homing in on me?” Blade asked Hickok.

“Plato asked her to.” Hickok had completed his check of the dogs; they were all dead.

“Why?”

“We don’t know ourselves,” Geronimo answered. “But whatever it is, it’s urgent. Plato sent us to get you back as quickly as we could.”

“I wonder what’s up?” Blade asked, more to himself than the others.

“Instructions?” Hickok requested of Blade.

Blade paused, pondering. He was the section leader of the Alpha Triad, and as such he was responsible for issuing orders and implementing strategy. The Warrior Class was divided into four triads, each with a designated section leader. Plato had paired Blade with Hickok and Geronimo and appointed him as the leader. Plato had said that their teaming “compensated for individual deficiencies and maximized potential achievement.” Plato should know. He was the Family Leader, the wisest man in the Family.

Hickok and Geronimo were waiting.

“We’ll take the buck back, even if it does slow us down a bit,” Blade directed. “The Family needs the food.” Blade rubbed his injured wrist.

“You okay?” Geronimo asked.

“I’ll make it back.” Blade pressed the torn wrist against his left side, hoping to completely stop the dripping blood. The wound was deep, but the veins had been spared and his blood loss was minor. He bent over and retrieved his Bowie from the dead Doberman and slid both knives into their respective scabbards.

“Think we could use any of the dogs?” Hickok prodded one of the carcasses with his left moccasin.

“Too mangy,” Geronimo stated. “Look at their hides. Sores and blisters everywhere. The pelts wouldn’t do us much good, and the meat would be too stringy and tough. Who knows what diseases they’re carrying?”

“Point taken.” Blade nodded in agreement. “Okay. We take the buck and make tracks. Plato wouldn’t want us without very good reason. Hickok, take the point but keep in constant visual contact.

Geronimo, bring the buck. I’ll bring up the rear.”

Hickok was already in motion. Geronimo hefted the buck onto his right shoulder, waited until Hickok was ten yards ahead, then followed.

Blade fell into place behind them, speculating on the explanation for Plato’s summons. He drifted hack in time to his first meeting with the remarkable scholar and philosopher. Of course, nineteen years ago Plato wasn’t so old, nor was he leader of the Family. He had been elected to that post only four years ago, after Blade’s father had been killed by a mutate.

Blade remembered his first impression of Plato was one of extreme kindness, conveyed in the gentle blue eyes, the perpetually wrinkled brow, and the long hair and beard, now gray but then brown.

“So this is your pride and joy?” Plato had said to Blade’s father. “And he’s only five? Big for his age. I see he has his dad’s dark hair and abnormal gray eyes.” Plato had knelt and studied Blade’s youthful, earnest face. “There is character here. He will be a tribute to both his parents.”

Plato had stood, toying with the hairs in his beard as was his habit when deep in contemplation. “Have you noticed that since the nuclear war our records indicate each generation contains a proportionally higher percentage of offspring with hair and eye pigmentation of an unusual coloration and combination?” This fact, apparently, had greatly impressed the sage, and Blade had wondered why. Nineteen years later he still didn’t know.

Blade’s reverie was shattered by a low, piercing whistle from directly ahead. The danger signal. He dropped, flattening on the rough ground, ignoring a stabbing pain in his left wrist, and glanced at Geronimo.

Geronimo was prone too, the buck lying to one side. He was watching Hickok.

There was a small rise in front of them, covered with bushes. Hickok was crouched behind one of the larger shrubs, intently watching something on the other side of the rise. He turned and motioned for them to approach, but he placed a finger over his lips in cautious warning.

Blade followed Geronimo, crawling on his elbows and knees, his left wrist now starting to throb. They reached Hickok.

“Mutate,” Hickok whispered, and pointed.

Every time he saw one, Blade felt an instinctive urge to puke his guts out. They were disgusting, repulsive, an aberration of nature, the consequence of man tampering with cosmic forces better left alone.

This one, once, must have been a black bear.

“Ugly sucker, isn’t it?” Hickok asked softly.

An understatement, Blade thought.

The mutate was standing on the eastern bank of a small stream, the water not more than a foot deep. There was a large pool below the small rise, about twenty feet in diameter. The mutate was concentrating on the pool, apparently hunting for fish. The general shape and size of the creature was that of a bear, and the snout resembled that of a black bear, but the remainder of the beast was deformed and distorted, grotesque and bizarre. The black hair was all gone, replaced by huge, blistering sores, oozing pus from a dozen points, and cracked, dry, peeling brown skin. Two mounds of green mucus rose in place of the ears. The mutate breathed in wheezing gasps, the mouth open, the tongue slack and distended. The teeth were yellow and rotted. The stench was overpowering, and Blade could feel his stomach beginning to toss.

“We’ll swing wide to the south and avoid it,” he whispered to the other two and began to back away.

Hickok was still watching the mutate, and he saw it suddenly rear upright and sniff the breeze. The wind was blowing from the thing to them, so it shouldn’t be able to detect their scent. Then he remembered the buck, and he wondered if the deer smell could carry to the mutate without any strong gust.

The mutate was still smelling, eyeing the rise suspiciously.

Hickok placed his hands on his Colt Pythons.

The mutate shuffled forward and entered the stream, still on its two rear legs. The massive head was swiveling from side to side, the beady eyes searching.