David Robbins - The Fox Run

The one ahead of him became aware of pursuit and turned. Too slow.

Geronimo hit him low, at the knees, toppling him to the turf. He jumped up and struck, the flat side of his right tomahawk smashing against his opponent’s exposed chin. Again. And again.

The attacker groaned and slumped against the corn stalks.

Good! The Family had a prisoner.

But where was Jenny?

Geronimo made for the east wall. He could track at night, but the task was time-consuming and time was one precious commodity he did not possess at this moment. Apparently, the attackers had entered the Home from the east. It only made sense they would exit the same way. He passed field after field. Stands of trees whisked by. No sign of anyone else, though.

Even in the subdued light the wall was clearly visible. Incredibly, as he neared the moat, Geronimo spotted several flowing phantoms clambering up the inner wall. How were they doing it?

The attackers reached the top of the wall and vanished over the side, all save one.

Geronimo reached the edge of the moat, the water lapping against the bank. He knew it would be useless to swim the moat and attempt to follow them. There was no way he could scale the smooth surface of the inner wall. He gave vent to a rare outburst of anger.

“Damn!”

The last of the figures was at the top. It paused, and an eerie, cackling laughter floated down from above. Then the last attacker disappeared over the top.

“Damn!” Geronimo repeated, wondering how Hickok and Blade were faring.

Hickok was supporting Blade and moving as rapidly as he could toward the Blocks. Gunfire and shouts punctuated the night. Obviously there had been more than one group of assailants.

“Jenny…” Blade was saying, over and over.

“She’ll be okay,” Hickok tried to assure him, grunting at the effort required to carry Blade’s bigger body. “You know, pard,” Hickok added, “far be it for me to criticize a friend in a time of crisis, but you sure as blazes are falling down on the job a lot lately. I think you’re losing your edge.”

Blade jumped in his arms.

“Just great!” Hickok muttered. “What next?”

There was the blast of a shotgun and a woman shrieked from the area of the cabins, some of which were now in view.

“This is getting awful repetitious,” Hickok said to himself, gently lowering Blade to the ground.

A rifle cracked to his left.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Hickok said to Blade, drawing his Pythons. He jogged to the cabins and rounded the rear of the nearest one.

And ran into bedlam.

A dozen or more Family members were engaged in frantic, hand-to-hand combat with their mysterious enemies.

Hickok spotted a dark form on top of one of the Family, beating him on the head with a club. His left Colt bucked and the adversary jerked backwards onto the grass. To his right, twenty feet away, two attackers were trying to subdue a woman, one holding each arm as they endeavored to pull her into the night. Hickok recognized her, Juliet, kicking and twisting in a frightened frenzy.

“That’s no way to treat a lady,” Hickok announced, gratified when the two antagonists turned his way, even happier when his two shots caught them in the head. “Piece of cake.” He grinned.

A bullet slammed into Hickok from behind, catching him in the fleshy part of his left shoulder, spinning him around, shocking him.

I can’t believe it! Hickok thought. I’ve been shot! He glanced down at his shoulder, aware of a vague numbness, surprised at the lack of pain. Guess he never really expected it to happen to him!

“So long, sucker!” stated a gruff voice. “You’ve wasted your last Troll!”

Troll?”

A fist hammered into Hickok’s stomach, doubling him over. The next blow, on the right cheek, knocked him to his knees.

Got to concentrate, Hickok realized, his stomach sore and his cheek throbbing. This is getting serious!

There was the click of a hammer being drawn back.

Hickok gazed up, into the barrel of a Marlin 45-70, the rifle only inches from his head. He was still holding the Pythons and he tried to bring them into play, amazed when his arms refused to respond.

The Troll laughed. “Any last request, asshole?” he taunted the gunman.

“Just a comment,” Hickok replied. “You talk too much!” He rolled, sweeping his legs under the Troll. The Marlin blasted close to his left ear as the bulky form fell. Hickok’s left arm was still numb, but he forced his other arm to steady the Python as he planted a slug between the Troll’s eyes.

Two other Trolls disappeared in the darkness.

His ears ringing, Hickok rose to his feet.

The fighting was winding down.

A tall Troll, armed with a double-edged axe, started to follow his retreating companions, but he inexplicably paused, hefting the axe in his hairy hands.

Hickok, about to shoot the Troll, hesitated, wondering why the man had stopped. He understood when he heard the piercing kiai, the focused cry of a martial-arts master, and saw Rikki-Tikki-Tavi dart into view.

The Troll with the axe charged, swinging.

Rikki danced to one side, his left foot flicking out, connecting, shattering his opponent’s right knee, staggering the Troll. Rikki swung his katana, the razor-keen blade severing the Troll’s head from his body. Blood gushed out, resembling a miniature geyser. The arms flopped twice and the body toppled over.

“You sure are messy, pard,” Hickok observed wryly.

“Are you seriously hurt?” Rikki asked, noting Hickok’s shoulder.

“Just my pride,” Hickok replied. “But I have learned a very valuable lesson tonight.”

“Oh?” Rikki-Tikki-Tavi scanned the area. Bodies were everywhere. There was no sign of the intruders. Family members were assisting injured companions. “What’s that?”

“I’ll never, ever make fun of a certain mongoose again.”

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi laughed.

Plato, standing near the SEAL in front of E Block, gazed over the assembled Family and felt tears moistening his tired eyes. The early morning sun was bright, glaring, causing him to squint as he addressed them.

“Last night was the worst night in Family history! And do you know whose fault it was? Ours!” There were murmurs among the Family members, many shifting uncomfortably. Plato averted his eyes. He could scarcely stand to see the injured, to look at his maimed loved ones, to observe their saddened expressions. It wouldn’t do, though, to permit them to perceive his sorrow. He must be strong, befitting a Leader.

“It was our fault because we became complacent,” Plato said, confronting them with the truth. “Over the years we’ve become sloppy, careless. In the early days, right after the Big Blast, the Family posted Warriors on every wall at night, not just the west wall.” He sighed, weary to his core. “We began believing we were secure in the Home, safe from attack. Who could scale our tall walls? Who would dare assault us? Well, we have our answer, and a terrible price has been paid for our folly. I know you must have many questions about last night, and here is the man with the answers.”

Plato beckoned and Hickok stepped alongside him. Geronimo was leaning against the SEAL.

Blade was still in C Block, being tended to by the Healers.

“We know how they got in,” Hickok began, holding aloft a long rope with a grappling hook attached to one end. He used his right arm. His left was pressed against his side. The Healers had informed him the wound was not serious. They had applied therapeutic herbs and a compress and argued when he stubbornly refused to accept a sling. “We found this still attached to the top of the east wall. They apparently used these to scale the outer wall. Once on top, they used wire cutters to get past the barbed wire. From there it was easy to climb down the inner wall, swim the moat, and do what they came here to do. We think there were two groups. One came over the east wall, the other over the south. Our initial estimates place their strength at about two dozen.”