David Robbins - The Fox Run

Joan, you should be in charge. We must try to stick together. Stay hopeful.

Help will come.”

“Here comes the big one,” Daffodil stated.

Saxon strolled over to them. “On your feet. We’re moving out.” He stepped close to Jenny. “I like blondes. Behave yourself, and I’ll claim you after the testing.”

“Testing?” Jenny wanted him to explain.

“You’ll see.” Saxon walked back to the other Trolls.

“You know,” Lea said optimistically, “it doesn’t seem like they intend to hurt us.”

“Oh no, they won’t kill us,” Joan snapped. “It isn’t too much fun raping a dead body.”

The women slowly stood.

“My aching muscles,” Lea complained.

The Trolls assumed their original positions. Saxon picked up the end of their tether.

“Can’t we have some water?” Jenny requested.

“There’s a stream up ahead a ways,” Saxon informed her. “We all get a drink when we reach it.”

Joan had overheard. “If there’s a stream up ahead,” she said, “then why don’t you Trolls jump in it? Bathing more than once a year wouldn’t hurt, you know!”

Saxon’s eyes narrowed. “Everybody knows bathing is bad for you.

Weakens you.” He raised his voice so all the Trolls could hear. “This one sure likes to use her mouth, doesn’t she?”

“So what if I do?” Joan wouldn’t be cowered.

“So if you like using it so much,” Saxon told her, “you’ll get your chance. In the pen.”

“The pen? What’s that?”

“It’s a place where you’ll be able to flap your gums all you want, bitch.”

The Trolls cackled.

“Now move your asses!” Saxon yelled. “Or else!”

So much for Mr. Nice Guy, Jenny reflected. She sadly gazed over her left shoulder.

Where was Blade?

Plato was tired.

With the assistance of some of the Family members, he had loaded all of the Alpha Triad’s provisions, food and ammunition and medical supplies, into the SEAL. There were two bucket seats in the front of the vehicle, one for the driver and the other for a passenger. Between the bucket seats was a control console for several of the SEAL’s special features. Behind the bucket seats was another seat, running the width of the transport. Behind this rear seat was a large area for storage. Two spare tires and tools were kept in a recessed compartment under the storage area.

Plato walked to the SEAL, the vehicle gleaming in the afternoon sun, and opened the driver’s door. Under the dashboard, in the center, hung a red lever. Plato gripped the lever and pushed it to the right. The Operations Manual explained that this lever would activate the solar collector system, if it was still properly functional.

“Any word on this mechanical critter, old-timer?” asked someone behind him.

Plato turned.

Hickok, Blade, and Geronimo were fully armed, ready to go. Blade was giving Hickok a dirty look.

“I will know more in an hour.” Plato grinned. “The Operations Manual states that the solar energization process takes sixty minutes to achieve optimum performance levels. Every morning of your journey, one hour before you intend to drive, place the red lever under the dashboard in the right-hand position.”

“Fine by me,” Hickok said. “But I’ve got one question.”

“Which is?” Plato rolled down the driver’s window.

“What the blazes is a dashboard?”

“Haven’t you studied the books in the library dealing with modes of transportation?” Plato inquired.

“Sure.” Hickok shrugged. “But mainly I just looked at the pictures of the cars and the trucks, specially some of those race cars. Imagine being able to travel at over one hundred miles an hour! I never got into the mechanical aspect, though.”

“Suffice it to say, you have a lot to learn. All of you. Take the Operations Manual with you and read it as you travel. Earlier I placed the additives in the engine. They were stacked in cartons in the chamber housing the SEAL all these years.”

“Additives?” Blade repeated.

“Yes. The engine in the SEAL is unique, unlike any in the world at the time of World War Three. It’s described as self-lubricating when in truth a small amount of lubricant must be added before it can operate.”

“Do you really think the SEAL will work?” Geronimo queried. “After all this time?”

“I honestly can’t say.” Plato sighed and leaned against the transport.

“The Founder had confidence it would. He spent a sizable portion of his fortune devising it.”

“What’s this?” Hickok bent over and picked up a yellow can from the ground near Plato’s feet.

“It’s one of the additives,” Plato explained.

Hickok sniffed at the opening Plato had made in the top of the metal can. “Smells awful,” he commented, scrunching up his nose. “Glad we don’t drink this stuff.”

“The SEAL drinks that stuff,” Plato stated, smiling. “One can every fifty thousand miles. We’ll need to retain a record of the odometer mileage.”

“What the blazes is an odometer?” Hickok asked.

Plato sighed.

“Blade!” a woman abruptly yelled, urgency conveyed in her strident tone.

The men whirled.

Nightingale was running their way, her brown hair flying.

“What is it?” Blade demanded as they moved to meet her.

Nightingale bent over, almost out of breath. “The Troll…” she managed to say before she began wheezing.

Plato placed his left hand on her shoulder. “Take your time. Breathe slowly.”

Nightingale was gulping air. She had covered the two hundred yards from C Block as fast as her legs would carry her.

“What is it?” Blade asked her again.

“The Troll got away!” she finally exclaimed.

“What?” Blade gripped her arms. “How? Where did he go?”

“We were tending him,” she explained, “fixing his wound, when Rikki asked Joshua to watch the Troll while he went outside and undo his ropes, said his circulation was being cut off. I objected, but it didn’t do any good.

Joshua untied the Troll’s hands, and before we could prevent it, too fast for us to do anything, the Troll picked up a chair and hit Joshua, knocking him down. One of the other Healers screamed. Rikki came running in, and the Troll got him as he came through the door. The Troll took Rikki’s sword. He was coming this way. Didn’t you see him?” She was out of breath again.

“He ran behind E Block,” Hickok deduced, “keeping the building between him and us.”

“He’s making for the east wall,” Geronimo speculated.

“Get him,” Blade ordered, looking at Geronimo. “You’re the fastest. Besides, Hickok and I aren’t in any shape for a foot race.”

Without another word, Geronimo wheeled and ran in pursuit of the Troll. He carried his Browning in his right hand as he concentrated on maintaining a steady pace. No sense in tiring himself out too soon. There were acres to go and the Troll had a head start. How far ahead was he?

A scream shattered the heat of the day, coming from the area of the cabins.

Now he knew. Geronimo hastened his pace, dreading the worst. If only the lookout on the wall had spotted the escaping Troll! He would have sounded the alarm, blown the horn, and alerted the entire Family to the threat.

Someone was sobbing.

Geronimo reached the first row of cabins. A woman was on her knees next to a fallen man, blood covering his chest. She glanced up as Geronimo approached and pointed due east.

“He went that way!” she shouted, tears filling her eyes. “He cut Jefferson! Cut him bad!”

Several others were gathering.

“Get the Healers!” Geronimo told them as he passed. There was little he could do for Jefferson; insuring the Troll did not escape was his first priority. If the Troll got away, you could bet he would flee to Fox and warn the other Trolls that a rescue party was definitely on the way. Geronimo frowned. He couldn’t allow that to happen.