David Robbins - The Fox Run

Birds were singing in nearby trees. Butterflies wafted on the wind.

Geronimo ignored the scenic beauty as he plowed into the cornfield, the sharp leaves lashing at his arms. He disregarded the stinging sensation and focused his attention on his body, pushing it as far as he could. His leg muscles were beginning to tighten.

Field after field passed.

Geronimo marveled at the ease with which he could navigate the terrain, compared to his slow pace of the night before when he wasn’t sure of what was what.

The moat was closer.

If he remembered correctly, there was one last field, a stand of trees, a cleared space and the moat.

Still no sign of the Troll. How was he expecting to scale the wall? Had the Trolls hidden ropes and grappling hooks along the moat?

Geronimo reached the trees, limbs pulling at him as he dodged between two trunks and stopped, searching the moat for any sign of the Troll.

The movement of his head saved his life.

As Geronimo looked right his peripheral vision detected the flashing gleam of the katana blade as it sliced at his neck. He twisted, automatically bringing up the Browning, holding the stock in his left hand and the barrel in his right, blocking the katana. The clang of metal striking metal was loud, reflecting from the wall and seeming to fill the cleared space.

The Troll kept coming, swinging the sword again and again, bearing down, keeping the pressure on, preventing Geronimo from using the Browning.

Geronimo back-pedaled, waiting for an opening, thankful the Troll wasn’t skilled in Tegner.

Kurt Carpenter had stocked almost five hundred thousand books in E

Block, the books he envisioned the Family would require to overcome the obstacles it would face. Survival books. Hunting and fishing.

Metalsmithing. Natural Healing. How-to books proliferated. He had provided two dozen books on hand-to-hand combat written by a man named Bruce Tegner. Each of the books contained concise, step-by-step diagrams and instructions, complete with detailed photographs of every movement and position. The library contained Tegner’s books on judo, jujitsu, karate, aikido, jukado, kung fu, savate, and numerous other styles of martial combat. Tegner’s books were the Family’s source of tutelage in the martial arts, and the training sessions eventually became known as Tegner sessions, or simply Tegner. The Family Elders shared the responsibility of training the younger Family members during their schooling years. One of the Elders, a former Warrior, conducted classes in the art of Tegner. Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was his star pupil.

Geronimo silently thanked the Great Spirit that this Troll was no Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.

The Troll was clumsily striving to force the katana past the Browning, to pierce Geronimo’s guard and disembowel him.

Geronimo was holding his own. He detected a trace of fatigue in the Troll’s swings, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he could bring the Browning to bear. What should he do? Blow the reeking weirdo in half, or take him back to Blade alive?

The matter was taken from his hands.

He tripped.

Geronimo’s right foot caught on a large rock and he fell backwards, hard, his right hand loosing its grip on the Browning and the gun fell to one side.

The Troll spotted his opening and vented a cry of triumph as he closed in, raising the katana for the coup de grace.

Geronimo twisted, avoiding the shimmering blade.

The Troll misjudged the force of his lunge and stumbled.

Geronimo sprang to his feet, his tomahawks in his hands.

“I’m going to cut you to pieces!” the Troll boasted.

“Drop the katana,” Geronimo warned, “and you’ll live.”

“Screw you!” the Troll bellowed, aiming the blade at Geronimo’s head.

Geronimo ducked, and as he came up under the blow he buried his right tomahawk in the Troll’s forehead.

The Troll stiffened, blinked once, gurgled, and fell.

“There it is!” someone said, and Rikki-Tikki-Tavi emerged from the trees and retrieved his prized katana.

“Glad you could make it,” Geronimo casually commented. “I’m just fine, thank you. I appreciate your concern.”

Rikki held the gleaming sword upright in his hands, his eyes carefully checking it for damage.

“I hope your sword is okay,” Geronimo sarcastically quipped.

Rikki slowly ran his left hand the length of the shining blade. “Nobody, but nobody,” he matter-of-factly stated, “takes my katana from me. Ever.”

Geronimo watched the blood oozing from the Troll’s head. “It’s too late to tell him .” He paused, then added an afterthought. “I know a fellow who feels the same way about his Colts, and another who goes to bed at night with Bowie knives at his side.”

“And you?” Rikki quizzed him. “What about you?”

Geronimo stared at the tomahawk in his hand. “I see what you mean,” he confessed.

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi smiled. “It is the nature of the Warrior.”

Plato stood back, appraising the SEAL. He had rechecked the engine, secured the hood, climbed on the roof to examine the solar collectors and underneath to check the special batteries, and verified the dash indicator displayed a full charge.

Blade, Hickok, and Geronimo were standing beside him. The rest of the Family was gathered around the SEAL, knowing the momentous event was about to occur. The starting of the SEAL.

“I should warn you,” Plato said to the Alpha Triad. “I’ve done the best I can, but it may not be good enough.”

“How do you mean?” Blade asked.

“Despite hours in the library studying various modes of transportation, this is the first motorized transport I’ve encountered. I’ve studied the manual, and in preparation for this day I’ve also perused the entire collection of automotive literature. It’s just that…” He paused, thoughtfully biting his lower lip.

“What is it, Plato?” Geronimo politely goaded him.

“It’s just that I can’t guarantee you the SEAL will work as it’s supposed to.” Plato slapped his right hand against his thigh in frustration. “Despite all of my studying, basically the vehicle is alien to me. Reading about something is only a fair substitute for experiencing the reality of whatever you are reading about. Absolutely nothing can take the place of actual experience. Even then, my reading has basically been in vain because the SEAL is unlike any other motorized vehicle in use before the Big Blast.”

“So what you’re saying,” Hickok said, pondering Plato’s words, “is that this thing could break down in the middle of nowhere and we could find ourselves stranded, surrounded by mutates and only the Spirit knows what else?”

“I believe you’ve gleaned the gist of my meaning,” Plato admitted.

“Wish I hadn’t,” Hickok mumbled. “So much for the wonderful world of technology.”

Joshua, his left shoulder heavily bandaged, joined them. “Are we ready?” he inquired.

Plato noticed the Warriors ignored Joshua. “We appear to be all prepared,” he proclaimed. He held the keys out. “Who wants to attempt to drive it first?”

Hickok grabbed the keys before the others could move.

“Are you certain you’re up to it?” Plato questioned. “You must exercise caution. We can’t afford, to damage this vehicle.”

“I’ve still got one good wing,” Hickok said, grinning.

“But are you positive?” Plato pressed him.

“A piece of cake,” Hickok assured them. He opened the door, climbed into the driver’s seat, then closed the door.

“Our moment of truth,” Joshua stated solemnly. “I never expected to see the day when we would be riding in a solar-powered vehicle.”

“We hope,” Blade added. “Well, whenever you’re ready,” he said to Hickok.